Awaken: A Prologue
by dappers
Summary: John Shepard is a precision tool, part of a deniable surgical strike team developed in the early 21st century. As a shell of the man he once was, how will he handle the trials and tribulations that fate has set in store for him? Non-canon history. Additional original character.
1. Chapter I & II: Introduction

_(Chapter I and Chapter II merged)_

**JUNE 7th, 2020  
****Cambridge, Massachusetts  
****1900 Hours**

"... and I hope you'll all join me in giving a hearty round of applause", a pause, as the heavy set man took in a deep breath. _Why would they have a smoker do commencement? _"... to the graduating class of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology of 2020!" Booming applause, flashing cameras, tearful embraces and hand-numbing high-fives. A glance to the scroll in his hands; Yes, still there. The parchment looked artificially old, like pages of an ancient book. He wondered, briefly, if that had any true purpose. It was sealed with a blood red red wax stamp and ribbon, dull in the overhead lighting, and as a whole, it felt... odd, such an outdated method from such a technologically advanced school, like it didn't quite belong. _Yes, yes it must have some significance. _Any further train of thought was interrupted as he stumbled forward, knocked in the shoulder.

"C'mon man, we just graduated! How are you not excited?" Nick's shout barely cut through the din of raucous celebration. Regaining his footing, he looked back at his old friend. They had been in the same class for most of his adult life, through undergrad and post-grad schooling, Nick the mathematician and he the astrophysicist. It had been a long time – years of Quantum Mechanics, Special Relativity, theoretical physics and so much more. It had tired him, stretched so thin over all of it, it seemed unreal that it was over, at least until real life started. "Yeah... Yeah you're right. I should be ecstatic, just...", He shook his head of the thought, eyes rolling for a moment as he realized where they were. "... I guess I don't know what I'm supposed to do next." It was true. After so long in the dormitories; weekend parties, unabashedly loose love lives, and in general tomfoolery, it was a sudden shock to be free of it all. "Are you kidding? We do what we've always done..."

"Drink!"

* * *

**MAY 13th, 2021  
****Boston, Massachusetts  
****1100 Hours**

A year later, he wouldfind himself evicted from his apartment on 39th, kicked to the busy street with naught but the bag on his back and the keys to his old motorcycle. The thing was _old_, manufactured in the _early_ Twenty-first century by some now-defunct manufacturer. There were better models he could have bought, but to him, none had had the same lines and naked beauty of his own, not to mention the low price tag. Practically his only worldly possession anymore, he had invested more time and care into it than he had some other, more important things: Like love, his apartment, or even his career. It showed, too, in the clean lines of the trellis frame, or the solid matte black of the fuel tank, to the polished aluminum exhaust tips and brand new self-lubricating chain.

It still started perfectly, the dash glowing orange as he keyed the ignition, watching the gauges go through a self-check as they bounced off the needle end. A moment later the L-twin engine came to life, purring at two-thousand rotations per minute. The twin exhaust cans mounted offset to the seat vibrated to a just-distinct blur, a steady stream of white exhaust floating from the tips like cigarettes. A glance over his shoulder, and he merged slowly into the empty road, unsure where he was going, but certain he was going somewhere. He was leaving everything behind, everything and nothing really. Since college, he had struggled to find sustainable employment, bouncing from libraries to gas stations to janitorial jobs and more. For a moment, he considered his family: His parents, divorced when he was young, lived on opposite sides of the continent, and neither would be very happy to see him. Besides, he was aware he was far too proud for that, as he came to a halt at an intersection. _Red light, indicators_. An impressive, strong looking soldier stared back at him from a passing bus advertisement, the printed eyes reflecting a certain steel; a certain steel he was sure he'd never be able to match._ Green light, right turn_. He was strong, mentally at least. He even went so far as to consider himself fair in thought, and had rarely treated fellow man with disdain, always considering those around him to be no less than his equal._ Left, park_. But strong? He wasn't entirely sure he was.

But all that meant very little to him now. He had nowhere to go now, no place to rest his head, maybe forty dollars to his name – Thirty-seven, after the coffee he had purchased in the little cafe. He had come to the brick-and-mortar shop to collect his thoughts and figure out his 'plan of action'. Needless to say, the wait staff didn't appreciate it, and had threatened to kick him out without a second thought unless he had business. _Three dollars for a damned coffee. So much for the infallible dollar._

The small brass bell above the door chimed, a happy tinkle in an otherwise rundown and decrepit establishment. Decrepit it was, the dark varnish of the tables chipped and burnt, once gleaming tiles filthy and stained with all manner of drink. The dim lighting from sixty-watt bulbs in the hanging lamps did little to help the fact – Indeed, the entire place seemed tired, a tiredness that was reflected in the eyes of the owner managing the till. The man, Afonso, was a relatively short and tan-skinned, disheveled hair tucked under a stained newsboy cap, even a bit plump, surprising given his employment. It hardly seemed possible that this dingy cafe would pay the bills and supply enough food for that kind of excess.

It was a surprise then, when the polished shoes of some military officer swung through the door and clapped against the tile. Military uniforms always held a sense of pride, and this was no exception – From the deep navy blue trousers imbued with the red bloodline, to the long-sleeved midnight blue coat pinned with service medals and ribbons, to the pure white of the barracks cover now in his similarly gloved hands. The gold insignia pinned to the canvas of the cap flashed as it caught the light, shining like a bright star. Perhaps that is what shook Afonso from his stead at the till, as he stood from his seat in a breath's moment, lips tugged in a falsely cheery smile – Officers always had money. Catching the military man's eyes for just a moment, he noted his approach, and the boy of twenty-two looked away, into the smudgy window and to the cold, hard city of Boston. The Northeast States were unusually cold this time of the year, a frosty spring clinging desperately to the gray concrete slums. Overhead, sparse rays of sunshine poked through a blanket of suffocating blue-purple clouds, threatening to spill over with the tears of Mother Nature.

"What's your name son?" the soldier's voice clashed with his introspection – He had forgotten that recruiters practically patrolled the streets. Beyond those clouds, outside their atmosphere, still relatively unknown and unexplored, the vastness of space existed, dotted with trillions of objects. As a boy, he had looked upon the stars on countless nights, measuring them with his fingers and pretending meteors were approaching spacecraft, imagining that one day, he would go to the stars and beyond. As a boy, he would share his dreams with his parents, and as a boy, he would have his dreams crushed. The second big war of the early century was taking its toll on humanity's drive to pioneer and explore, and for many years he would wonder whether all great species were doomed to self-caused extinction. One day, some day. For now, he would be content with Earth. He would have to.

Staff Sergeant Sam Tarner shifted with slight unease at the corner of the table. Several seconds passed as the kid stared at the sky. A dreamer. Dreamers didn't make good Marines, but he was down on his recruiting quota. A pang of guilt plucked at his heartstrings – what few were left. Nobody wanted to enlist, not with the war reports everywhere. The media and nightly news sure didn't help. In a morbid sense, recruiting had become a trade of sacrifices; He could feed his family, in exchange for the boy's probable death. Perhaps he had sensed his discomfort, as the boy shut his eyes wistfully. A second passed, and he was then looking straight into the Sergeant's eyes. A breath of air, the boy's blue eyes locking onto his – There was a sort of steel in them.

"Shepard," Pause. "John Shepard."

* * *

**JUNE 6th, 2027  
****Prague, Czech Republic  
****0230 Hours**

* * *

"_Incoming!_"

The whistle of the finned sabot-stabilized eighty-millimeter rounds reached Corporal Shepard's ears mere milliseconds before the warning call and sirens, and nearly simultaneously the grimly lit tent was born to his wakening eyes. The mortar round impacted, the explosion like flashes of lightning that arced across the night sky. There was a hole in the roof of the barracks tent, he noticed in that fraction of a second, charred at the edges and looking not unlike something had punched through it, and he briefly wondered if anyone else had ever looked up through that little porthole. The smokey haze beyond that hung low over the city, sporadically flashing brilliant yellow as staccato gunfire erupted from all sides of the ramshackle mess that was Camp McCarran. A mess of prefab pillboxes and walls of HESCO barricades and concertina wire, McCarran was located in Zbraslav, several miles south of Prague, and had seen relatively constant contesting since its establishment. The men of the 82nd Airborne Division had landed weeks before to dig in, before being unceremoniously pushed out by what was described as "a flood of combatants". Having held it for a mere few days, precision air and ground based shelling flushed out the few enemies brave enough to stay, and in the days following a garrison of the 'Fighting Fifth' 5th Marine Regiment had occupied and fortified the Forward Operating Base.

All of this was decidedly unimportant as a shell punched down fifteen meters away, rocking the ground and sending the corporal crashing off his cot.

They slept in their gear, all of them did, specifically for this reason. It would take far too long to try to strap it all on in a defending scenario. Surprisingly little had changed in combat gear over the past decade: Updated inter-unit communications links, a primitive data readout linked to command strapped to his hardened left forearm, and a heads-up display projected on a tiny screen on a lockable boom mounted to his combat helmet were all that really stood out. His desert digital battle dress uniform was dirty, unwashed for days, pants tucked into mud-flaked boots of sepia and cinched with matching hard-faced kneepads, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The tan Nomex flight gloves were his own, with the tip of the right index finger cut off for trigger use, and his combat vest held mostly spare ammunition, but was fixed with a reserve two liter hydration pack and long range satellite radio. Most important to a rifleman was his rifle, which Shepard was currently using to push himself onto his feet, grimacing and taking in a spare breath for the one that had been knocked out just moments ago. On his feet again, his radio headset rushed the world to his ears.

"_Hostiles one-hundred meters from the south wall!"_

"_Gunner, adjust fire! Red building, right side of the road, ten meters up in the blown out wall, fire!"_

Shepard looked up; a fellow Marine, Gunnery Sergeant Dawson, stood several paces away, issuing orders for the troops issuing from the barracks. "Shepard! Get your ass to the south wall!" he called to the corporal. With an "Aye sir!", his feet moved with a will of their own, carrying him through the tent flap and into the mid-night combat. Yellow-green tracer fire zipped over the heads the defenders, and his boots dug into the loose gravel as adrenaline pushed him into a full sprint. The south barriers were holding, but only just, as a group of six Marines spread and fired out over cover into the opposing force. Seven Marines, then, as Shepard dropped and slid into the barrier.

"Nice entry Shepard, could'a played ball for the Yanks if you didn't have shit for brains!" A young Marine named O'Healy to his immediate left shouted.

"I'm from Boston, you know that!" He shouted back, crouching and peaking over the barricade with his rifle. Lining the sights up with his eyes, he moved them over to where two gunmen were taking potshots at the base and squeezed the trigger twice. _Thump. Thump. _The 5.56mm rounds ripped out of the muzzle and wreaked fissures upon the concrete as one of the gunman dropped behind cover.

"True! Guess you would have fit right in with them then!" O'Healy jabbed back, as he too leaned out of cover, finger pulsing the trigger rapidly at the same target. _Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump_, and the concrete barrier practically fell apart as the far more powerful 7.62mm rounds pounded through. The two gunman keeled forward, lifelessly hitting the ground. More targets popped up at random, behind the smouldering skeletons of cars and in fox holes dug into the pavement with artillery. With practiced grace, Shepard's rifle floated between targets, the rifle kicking in the pit of his shoulder with every shot until the bolt locked back, magazine emptied. The movement was swift, a change of magazines taking mere seconds. A group of targets broke from the right, rushing out to new cover.

"O'Healy, adjust fire ten meters west!" Shepard called out, moving his gun to the new targets. The snappy response of his rifle had brass casings littering the ground below him before a small plume of dust and dirt exploded before him. Eyes wide, he dropped in a heartbeat as shots landed where he had stood milliseconds ago. "You got a direction on that fire?" he asked as he tapped the kid's shoulder

"Aye, twenty meters back on the second story of that yellow building!"

He risked a look over the barricade; Two men were loading up what looked to be a very heavy machine gun in the far side of the window. "They're dug in hard! O'Healy!" Panicking slightly, he grabbed the Marine's rig and yanked him hard back into cover as heavy 12.7mm rounds pounded where he had been moments prior_._

"Where the hell did they get a doosh-ka!?" someone behind him screamed out.

"Call it in Avery, we need launchers!" Avery was the main RTO, or radio transmitter operator, of their section. He had not been so lucky when the DShK machine gun laid down its firepower, as crimson blood soaked through the nanotube bi-weave of his armor plates.

"Avery is down! Repeat, Avery is down!" Shepard pressed the radio speaker into his ear as static chortled across the bands. The familiar drumming of the heavy weapons seemed to echo as their corresponding rounds landed haphazardly all around the barricade. Instinctively, he pulled his entire body closer to the wall, tucking himself against the cover as more rounds mercilessly clobbered the defense.

"Wait for a break, then I want Shepard and O'Healy hitting that position with everything you got! Johnson, find me a launcher!" the reigning officer called out to a chorus of "Aye sir!" and "Roger that!".

Shepard tabbed the magazine release, dumping the old magazine and exchanging it for a topped off one and noted O'Healy copying his action. He leaned closer to the kid's ear, straining to be heard over the fire, "First break, keep shooting slow and steady, no panicked mag dumping, got it!?" The kid swallowed hard – He had only been part of the regiment for a few weeks and was already facing off with death. "We're gonna get through this. Hell, maybe I'll even let you buy me a drink." Shepard added, his hand gripping O'Healy's shoulder reassuringly. At the very least, it elicited a short laugh.

"Heads up, we've got a launcher on standby! I want heavy suppressing on my mark!" The same officer yelled out. Five more affirmative responses again rang out.

"Where's the launcher?!"

"In the bunker!"

"That's two hundred meters away, that's going to be a _helluva_ shot!"

The guy was right – a fair stretch away, the command bunker was set up as a cluster of four pillboxes surrounding a central hub. At that distance, even compensating for range and elevation, what would be millimeters for the gunner would be meters off for the target. "_Eastern perimeter secured!" _the radio chattered as he glanced at the combat information readout; 0350 hours, two perimeters secured.

"They'll handle it, just be ready for the mark!"

They did not have long to wait, as the rhythmic drumming of the belt-fed DShK came to an abrupt halt to reload. "Mark!" Inhale. Shepard threw himself to his feet, turning to suppress the offensive, when the muzzle of his rifle came face to face with an advancing troop barely three meters away and unruly time brought everything to a near standstill.

Exhale.

The man had dark eyes, soot stained his forehead. He was missing part of an eyebrow, probably singed off by a fire. A scar, ghostly white against the fat tan cheek layered with stubble, lead up around his right eye socket and into his receding hairline. A civilian, _some young boy's father_ some demon in the recesses of his subconscious mentioned. There was a light in his green eyes –

_Thumpthump!_

Two rounds drilled into the man's chest, blood blossoming like rose petals. His eyes widened, lips parting in agony, legs crumpling beneath him, his heavy Eastern European accent lacing his dying screams. The rounds came from his right; O'Healy's rifle. A third round spat out, rushing time to resume with it. The light faded.

"Shepard, _hit that damn gun nest!_" The cries of the dead echoed in his thoughts, penetrating his ears with shrill lacerations as he refocused his rifle sights over the gun nest and squeezed the trigger. Every shot provoked another ghost, the hordes of the dead clouding his vision. Brass spilled out at a steady rate, one after the other, rolling off the edge of barrier, buried in shallow graves of scuffing boots and chunks of pavement. They were calling his name, those dead. Reaching for him, calling for him.

The dead do _not_ speak.

Sound rushed from his ears as the drumbeat of gunfire and artillery cannons pounded in frenzied rhythm, his vision clearing of all the ethereal. The wooden window frame around the gun nest shivered and splintered against the onslaught of heavy fire, volley after volley like driving nails. A rocket ripped overhead with the scream of a banshee, a wispy trail of smoke lingering in the air before it disappeared into the window of the gun nest. A heartbeat later, fire bloomed out of the window like a lotus in full blossom. The sounds of hundreds of rounds cooking off in the intense heat could be heard like sharp claps over the thunder of the explosion. Both sides stared at the window, or at least where it used to be – Only a gaping hole remained, jagged and torn at the edges like a sucking chest wound. Something inside the apartment must have caught fire, as secondary explosions ruptured all throughout the building, punching out glass windows and patio doors alike. The thumps were dull, muffled through the insulating walls, but the shock waves shook the ground beneath Shepard's feet and stumbled the advancing foe. The peace did not last long, and the Marines opened fire once more. There were few stragglers left in the advance, even fewer willing to fight, and many were fleeing on foot.

"_Shepard! Shepard, you good?... Shepard?!"_

The man felt suddenly sick, and was thankful for the dim five o'clock light as his stomach heaved onto the ground. The bile burned at his throat like acid, a reminder of how little he had eaten the previous day. It felt wrong to eat so much when others were suffering from hunger, a thought that had often earned him mockery, but it reminded him why he was fighting.

_"Shepard!"_

He was fighting for those that couldn't, right? Those too poor, defenseless or weak to stand up for themselves. _Like the man you just saw killed in front of you?'_some awareness chimed in his ear.

_"Shepard!" _

_No, that wasn't my fault! _he reasoned. He hadn't shot him. He hadn't declared this war._ Stand in the ashes of a trillion dead souls and ask if that matters._

"_Shepard!" _O'Healy was shaking his arm, casting aside his conscious. "Shepard, there's no more left! What are you doing?!" A part of him realized he was still pulling the trigger over and over again, the hammer of the rifle clicking repeatedly in an empty chamber. A part of him didn't care.

"I'm... I'm all right. Just got distracted."

* * *

_Author's Note_

_(Feel free to skip this. I'm only adding this here because I read Author's Notes aren't allowed to be in their own chapter. Hopefully no pre-content or post-content notes of significant length after this one)_

_This is the first fanfic I've ever written, and to be honest I feel a bit foolish doing so. I'm not terribly sure why._

_Either way, I was reading a few the other day, one of them was an 'SI' which I figured meant self-injection, IE putting the author into the story. It was... Interesting. I'm sure most of us have all thought about this sort of thing at some point, but my only problem with it was that it was so out of this world. The author had come up with this fantasy entrance (Which, there's nothing wrong with. I just find it difficult to place myself into the story with it, and I do love putting myself in the boots of a main character) and the entire story had a very dream-like feel to it, like whatever the author's character wished for just sort of happened. I suppose it might have been a comedic adventure._

_Part of me was still interested in that idea though, the thought of projecting ones self, or their likeness, into the story of Mass Effect from a current-day standpoint. It'd be hard to use your own likeness since the story takes place one-hundred and seventy or so years into the future, and any crossing that bridge is very fantasy-like. As I lay their in my bed, thinking it over, having read through a part of that story, one very jarring obstacle arose: Mass Effect already had its strong lead character. If this is to be your story, well, Zach Braff put it perfectly: "Holy inferiority complex Batman! How low is my self esteem that I'm the sidekick in my own fantasy?" (Scrubs, 'My Fifteen Minutes'). Mass Effect has its lead, and you can't really replace Shepard with yourself and expect it to just work. It's also extremely difficult to add yourself into the story, or add a new main character into the story, without having the two characters (Shepard and whomever you insert) constantly grinding against each other – The stage is only big enough for one character. Or at least, in my opinion it is, because it would seem to me that you would want this character to be fantastic, and while each of the characters all are in their own respects, to me they seem to live in Shepard's shadow just a bit._

_At this intersection, I thought about it, just adding in my own character, potentially modeled after my own likeness, who knows. I'd think about doing it from the new guy's point of view, but then, it's still just 'the squadmate' in my own story. Perhaps it would have worked out better.. I thought, though, that I wanted to have this character have a pivotal role, to really affect the story with my changes – I still don't know if I'll be able to do that – and introducing just another squad mate didn't seem to do that, and so I came up with this._

_I can make no promises that it will be entirely entertaining, interesting, or even bearable really. I've never really done a lot of writing, mostly forum-based exchanges where fifteen-hundred word responses were considered a tad on the excessive side. I've never taken an advanced writing class apart from AP Lang and AP Lit. I've never thought that I was a particularly good writer, and by the time you click away from this story, I'm sure you'll agree._

_That being said, I'm okay with all that, I suppose. I'd love to be able to write something truly entertaining for all of you, to really reach you and affect you, but in the end, it's just my brainchild. All it is is something to alleviate my boredom._

_One of the problems with self-injections is that it's difficult to take you, a man or woman living in 2013, with your experiences and your body, and place it in 2183 without some seriously questionable plot lines. With this, I want to be able to do something similar, and explain it, and have it work with at least a degree of realism. Bear in mind this is **not **a self-injection/self-insertion._

_I'm off to a decent start with this, I think. Until further notice, all chapters should be considered unfinished works, rough drafts if you will. But, without further delay, have at._

_Post Chapter V update: Thankfully I've yet to really run into any problems with writing. However, I feel as though I'm pushing this too quickly, and not really experiencing my prelude to the Mass Effect story. I'm not sure what, if anything, I'll do about that, but we'll see I suppose._


	2. Chapter III: Elementary

**July 20th, 2027  
****San Diego, California  
****1200 Hours**

* * *

There was something decidedly odd about the world, John Shepard had figured. Less than two weeks ago he had been fighting for his life in the middle of a city full of destitute survivors and foreign mercenaries. Less than two weeks ago he had helped stabilize a wounded soldier as his femoral artery bled so much blood onto the dirt of the medical tent he was half-certain that his internals would turn to sand. Less than two weeks ago he had witnessed a cane-bearing old man get tossed like a ragdoll by a makeshift explosive. He had seen all this, and then suddenly he was on the beaches of San Diego, sprawled out upon a beach chair and sipping expensive – albeit cheaply made – beer, while the glaring white sun climbed the blue matte of sky in a show of utter dominance. It really was quite a curious development, but one he had lacked the energy to question. Their experiences had taken a collective toll upon the unit, stretching its endurance to its breaking point, and for what? A large handful, including Shepard, all agreed that what they had gotten was not what they expected – that they had signed on to do good in the world, not to be pawns to secure land and resources, and yet still they were used so. It was a truth that irritated him to no end, that stirred within him an urge to strike out at the heart of darkness that so manipulated them, but one that would try and try again to beat him into submission just the same.

"Despite _everything_ that's gone wrong on this planet, those pretty barmaids still know how to make one helluva piña colada!" A rough-shaven man dropped down into the beach chair next to Shepard, his tan skin making no secret of his west coast heritage. Daniel Moore was a brick of a man, with a wide tan forehead matched only by his jaw and deep brown eyes capable of reflecting a shocking amount of sincerity. The thin supports of the beach chair sunk several fingers down into the sunburnt sand as it strained to hold his lean bulk.

"You? Piña colada? Something doesn't add up there. I always figured you for a beer _man_." Shepard replied, squinting past his dark sunglasses. The midday sun cast its fiery rays over all manner of men and women over the endless strip of tan beach. The Fighting-Fifth had been 'volunteered' into embassy duty following the events at Camp McCarran, which was widely regarded and treated as paid leave, after numerous reports of what was described as "psychiatric malfunction" were relayed to the powers that be; Shepard had little doubt his name was on one of them.

"I figured I should broaden my horizons – "

"And you wanted to ogle the pretty barmaids."

Dan chuckled, "Well, you always were an intuitive man.", taking a sip – or perhaps a gulp – of his drink as he tossed the included straw over his shoulder. "I figure, in another month or so, probably less given current command style, we'll be crapping in shallow latrines and living in mud huts, so why not enjoy the change of scenery? And if that change of scenery happens to include several bikini-clad Latino women whom serve me alcohol at a discount, who am I to complain?" He cleared his throat pompously and rose his drink in what he presumed was dignified fashion before continuing: "What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder."

Any solemness or sincerity was immediately interrupted by John's hacking laughter as he choked on his drink, spluttering rashly as he doubled over above the sand. Dan's disapproving face lasted an impressive few seconds, before disintegrating into a fit of laughter. It would be several moments before either man would find the time, or the breath, to speak, and it was with weary smiles that they sat back in their chairs as John shook his head in his palm. "I don't think you're allowed to apply bible quotes to leering at scantily clad women, Dan." Dan was immediately up in arms at that, raising his voice about the proper application of 'leering' and how he clearly was not 'leering' at any scantily-clad women, but rather 'showing his appreciation for the fine ladies', and continued on about the differences for several minutes before quieting down with a speculative glance behind them.

"Speaking of the 'dee-el', what do you figure _they're_ doing here?" he muttered, suddenly conspiratorial, with a subtle nod off over his shoulder. "They've got this whole scientific research group or something going on during reviews, like they're analyzing us. Stared at me making marks on their clipboards the whole time."

Scanning the area Dan had indicated, Shepard couldn't help but agree; A group of scientists clad in white lab coats and pale green scrubs filed out of the base complex, flanked by teams of dark suited individuals whose jackets appeared _suspiciously_ bulky. It begged a question of their intentions, but he was determined to enjoy his off time. After being in hot zones for months at a time, the last thing on his mind was what some research team, no doubt funded by political aeolists, were doing in their free time. That is, unless they were developing portable hot water showers, then he was all ears.

"Who cares Dan, we got drinks and... well, not-quite-white shore." He said, raising his mostly untouched bottle in a toast. The man barely managed to return his gesture, his attention absorbed with the gathered research group whom were now moving clean white polystrene boxes, marked with what looked to be some company seal. Shepard noticed this, as it took him several attempts to match their drinks mid-air, and with a heaving sigh swung his legs out over the chair's edge to face him. Opening his mouth to comment on this, he was suddenly cut off with a very unsettled wave of a hand, as if beckoning him to lean in.

"Look, them boxes? I seen 'em before, they had all these chemicals and blood tests and stuff in them. I didn't even realize it till now, but now I think I might know what they are. I got this horrible feeling that we're being like... Experimented on or something" He said thoughtfully, if not with a bit of uneasy enthusiasm, not unlike a boy solving a puzzle as he stared into Shepard's reflective aviators.

He had to admit, the group was quickly becoming shifty, and they reminded him of smugglers he had seen in a film. _What are you up to... _he pondered, mentally projecting the question as if someone would answer. "Okay then detective, whom," he continued with a heavy dose of sarcasm, "I note is suddenly a qualified biologist, what kind of tests are they running?" Shepard put the question out there. While his interest _had _been piqued, he didn't like shooting blind all that much.

Dan took this shared speculation with gusto, immediately jumping into his theory. "If they took blood samples, you can do all sorts of things with them; develop new virus strains, implement immunizations, or... Or hell, I don't know, you could screw with genetics or something." Shepard gave him a look, stunned that the marine knew more than cheesy pick up lines and the playlists of old rock bands. "What? I paid attention in school." Dan shot back, face incredulous as if there was no room for doubt when it came to his 'expertise'. Past his doubts, though, Shepard knew what he said had an element of truth to it; blood samples weren't exactly uncommon in the service, but they were never handled by anyone but government agencies – not to mention, they had already had their blood taken a week prior.

"I can't believe I'm saying this but," he paused, shaking his head and rubbing his temples. He _was _incredibly bored. "What do you want to do?" While Dan had never really lead them astray, he didn't always think ahead, more prone to rushing into the fray than giving thought to any plan of action.

"'atta boy Shepard, I knew you'd see it my way." Not like he had had much choice. "I want to follow them, there's no good causing a scene out here, but the last time I checked I can't keep pace with cars on foot. Look, they're loading the boxes into that truck."

Shepard nodded; the whitecoats were quickly loading up the polystrene crates as the gray jumpsuit driver looked on in his cab, and soon the truck would be gone. "Look for unlocked bike racks, scooters, whatever. Let's avoid taxis." Shepard added, scanning the market plaza over the heads of swimsuit-clad groups. Beach-side, there wasn't much but slushy shops and open air eateries. "If nothing else, there's one of those rent-a-bike things about a half-block away, assuming you still remember how to ride one."

A short, irritated grunt was all he received in feedback, before the marine made his own observation: "I don't see nothing of the sort, and a bit of recon ain't worth going in front of a judge for. If we're gonna make it to that place, we gotta leave like, now. Let's hit it." Dan was up before he finished speaking, drink abandoned and legs propelling him forward before realizing he had no clue where he was going, and looked back at Shepard.

"Er, uh, you lead. I'll follow."

"Certainly."

And Shepard was up just as quickly, wiggling into and buttoning up his clean white oxford before scooping up his sandals and breaking into a run. The stall was not far, but they'd have to bust a hump to make it before the truck past them and went out of sight. Luckily, he noted, the research group seemed to be having a logistical error as they argued over the last few boxes. Opting for a less crowded route than straight through the plaza, Shepard veered to the left and, with a short jump over a patch of loose gravel, was pounding it out on the sidewalk, which was considerably less occupied than the parking lot or the beach itself. He could hear Dan's bare feet also slapping on the pavement, mixing with the steady chorus of their light breathing, as they dodged around a lone cyclist and split through a small group of tourists that ended with Dan accidentally bumping against a man carrying a cooler. The difference in their speed made up for it, and the tourist found himself landing on his considerable rear. "Excuse me sir, sorry sir!" Dan yelled over his shoulder as Shepard fought to keep his laughter in check, both of them still moving at a comfortable sprint. Behind them, he thought he heard an engine start.

"Pick it up Dan!"

To his credit, the man certainly could run, and quickly pulled ahead of Shepard. A little too late, he smirked, as they rounded the corner and practically ran into the bike stall. "Two!" he called to the man running it, and he begrudgingly pulled his wallet from his back pocket and counted out a sortie of bills. A moment later they were swiping the security bands off the bike and rolling them onto the pavement; and not a moment too soon. "The truck!" was all he said, slipping into his sandals and pushing the bike into a rolling start with Dan close behind him. "Not too fast," he cautioned, "there's bound to be traffic ahead, and we don't want to end up overshooting them."

A half-hour of frustrating traffic patterns and stops later, the two slightly breathy individuals sat at an outdoors diner table, a sweating glass of ice water apiece. They had followed the unmarked white truck's weaving path through several blocks, at one point guiding their chosen transportation on foot through a concert group and subsequently almost losing their target until a scrap broke out and the crowd dispersed. The truck had disappeared into the underground of a group of equally nondescript warehouses sitting on a massive lot of property, windows reflective in the afternoon sun allowing for a rampant amount of speculation as to their purpose. The position of the table yielded them good opportunity to survey the buildings with relatively little suspicion and neither of them were squandering it; Subtle glances from behind the safety of sunglasses, or the reflections the buildings cast upon various objects, or just looking at it like he was sure many people had. Gaining entrance wouldn't be particularly difficult, they had cooperatively decided, but maintaining any decent guise would require a lot of guesswork – Not something he found himself comfortable with.

"You want to freeze and cut that fence?" Moore nodded toward the apparently hastily erected chain link fence. There didn't appear to be any leads going to ground, so Shepard was relatively certain there were no active alarm channels on it.

"If we weren't in the middle of a city, maybe, but I _think_ we might want to be a little less blunt." He replied somewhat amused – Dan had never been one for subtlety – as he scanned the fence tops, searching for – _Ah, right there_. "We'll scale that section of fence without the barbs up top, about fifteen meters from the curb on the west side."

His partner smirked a bit, as Shepard always did prefer to play it safe, and then struck upon an unanswered, but vital, question: "What then?"

"You remember that truck driver? You and him sort of look the same, at least at first glance. We'll have to find a similar jumpsuit, but it should get us by, and you can say you're looking for something of yours if they ask." Not entirely untruthful.

"Like what?"

Shepard thought for a moment, face scrunched as if in deep consideration of this question. "Knowing you, probably steroids." he replied, after some moments of 'intense thought'. Dan's eyebrow rose as if to say _That's the best you can do? _and he probably would have voiced it had Shepard not quickly cut him off: "Shut up. Now, let's get out of here before someone notices us loitering. That guy is probably wondering where his bikes are, too."

* * *

**July 21th, 2027  
****San Diego, California  
****0100 Hours**

Standing forty meters from where they had sat just that afternoon, he thought for what was probably the tenth time that night what a foolish thing they were doing, breaking into some unknown entity's lab on the notion that someone might be doing some questionable science. The sun had long since set, leaving the city of San Diego to rest beneath a veil of patchwork clouds and spotty stars. The moon shone brightly, curtained by a particularly thick mass of cloud and yet somehow still providing an adequate level of light for the two marine's eyes. They were stood at the edge of the fenced perimeter, the monolithic trio of buildings a mere ten meters away. Both were dressed similarly, having scrounged a pair of gray coveralls and work gloves - They had fooled around with the idea of wearing balaclavas, but ultimately dismissed it in favor of not looking _completely _like amateur bank robbers.

"Alright, I'm set. Toss me up." Dan's whisper carried in the light midsummer breeze as he slipped on the pair of work gloves. "I still don't see why you can't just climb up like a normal person." Shepard smirked, sizing up the three meter fence before lowering into a crouch and linking his hands together. Dan had insisted he boost him up the fence to 'reduce noise' as the heavier man got over, a reason that largely seemed to originate from a past experience with chain link, but Shepard asked no questions of it. _He probably wouldn't have answered anyhow. _Double-checking his footing, he gave a nod and watched as his partner-in-crime rushed him.

* * *

"Shepard, this is going to take _hours_."

He had to agree, looking out at the maze of almost identical polystrene crates. The infiltration had been straightforward, literally a handful of turns and staircases, and since security didn't seem to extend to the sub-level he was fairly certain they had gotten through without raising suspicion. Unfortunately, the basement was several tens of meters in both length and width, the wall broken only by the door they had come through and a garage door, with what looked like a normal door cutout upon it, and several pallets of the crates had been offloaded. Some, they noticed, had a very thin layer of gray dust on their tops, which had narrowed their search down significantly. Others had large black cross-outs on each of their sides, which had further eliminated many sections. They were left with at least twenty pallets to search, and they didn't even know _what _they were searching for.

It had been at least half an hour that they had burned through, sifting through innumerable crates and packages, and he began clearing his throat to bring this up, until, after checking the contents of yet another box – replacement parts for the lobby vending machines – Dan cut him off with a wave of his hand, beckoning him to come closer. "Check it out John," One eyebrow rose a little – it had been a long time since he'd heard his first name. "I found my file, or at least a file with my name on it." That much was clear, as the tab on the manilla folder was clearly marked in obnoxious capitals: **MOORE, DANIEL B**. "Only problem is there's a lot missing. " That much was clear of the file under his torchlight. Blank sections of the documents showed that it had gone under somewhat sloppy censoring, but a small wealth of information had survived unmolested.

"This looks like they're... Scanning? You for something, Dan. See?" He pointed at the bottom of the page, where _Scraped subject cells show uncommonly large amounts of Marker A, D, and E. Recommend enlistment into project _was printed in thin letters. "Any idea what these 'markers' – Shit!" somewhere down the connecting hall a door shut loudly, followed by fast approaching foot steps on the concrete.

"Shepard, get those files packed back up while I get this in my boot!" Dan whispered urgently, speedily untying his boot laces and folding the stack of papers up small enough to fit beneath his foot. Surprised for a moment at his friend's quick thinking, he began stuffing papers back in files as he noted the sound of the the footsteps had gotten louder as they neared. Not a moment too soon had he fitted the lid to the crate than a breaker lever was swung on, the air popping as overhead lights came on and nearly blinding the two men crouched behind the boxes. A door opened and closed, and the clapping of rubber on concrete echoed in the warehouse. Whomever had come by seemed to be content for the moment standing on the stairs overlooking the entire bay, and Shepard took advantage of it. They were maybe five meters from the garage door, and the shape of a human-sized door designed into was clear at that range. Dan seemed to have the same idea, as they both tapped each other to get the others attention at the same time, and then nodded as they slowly began weaving through the crates towards the door.

Far above on the top floor of the warehouse, security footage of two men sifting through clean white crates looped on a closed-circuit monitor. One man was thickset, tan, and the sinews of his forearms popped as he lifted one of the crates off another. The other was slightly taller, and almost just as heavily built with wide shoulders and an expansive chest. Both had close-cropped shaved hair, classic military high-and-tight. One of them, the one now sealing the opened boxes, had a certain authoritative air that he had demonstrated throughout their monitored incursion. A puff of smoke drifted across the monitor, the hazy fumes wavering in the glaring artificial light as the cigarette simmered in the man's mouth. An old golden band adorned his left ring finger. His almost inhuman blue eyes reflected the screen and seemed to tighten in focus on the taller of the two men, as if sizing him up, before the monitor's icy glow snapped off and the room was cast in darkness.


	3. Chapter IV: Countenance

**July 21th, 2027  
****San Diego, California  
****1030 Hours**

* * *

Shepard was exhausted. The night's raid had ended with both Dan and himself taking a sleepless night analyzing the stolen documents in the fluorescent lighting of the barrack's mess hall. They had found little plain data, and what they had found seemed to suggest some sort of advanced combat program that had been shuffled around under various labels, receiving funding from no single account in particular. What they had found most surprising was the dossiers - complete with photos and what could have passed for an autobiography - that detailed both of the marines lives up to the week prior. Dan, he had read, grew up as little more than a vagrant on the streets of New Mexico, and had enlisted in the military the very day he came of age. Shepard, in turn and since he didn't seem to receive the honor of a dossier, was prodded to recount his tumultuous falling out after leaving college, and the two eventually packed the papers into the spaces above the lay-in ceiling tiles before retiring to their bunks roughly half an hour before the morning wake up call went out.

"You look like shit, sergeant." The stiff-collared elderly officer remarked as he entered the room, his slow gait aiming him towards the steel chair on the opposite side of the table as the low gravel of his voice deadened against the dark walls. A deep, if brief, chuckle emitted from under a well groomed silver moustache as he watched the marine send his chair flying while coming to attention. "At ease, kid." Probably should have mentioned that beforehand.

"Sir?" Shepard was casting a confused look his way as he stood rigid despite his indifference, and he noted the shiny gold four-star pin: An admiral. "You said sergeant, sir. This marine is just a lowly corporal, sir."

At this, a small black box skidded across the table, landing into Shepard's surprisingly quick hands. "Nice reflexes there, _sergeant_." A quick nod confirmed the contents of the box, which he left unopened, resting perfectly parallel to the edge of the table.

"Thank you, Admiral sir." Already something wasn't adding up in Shepard's mind. Every other recruit he and Dan had questioned had all said the interviews were conducted by a team of doctors, evaluating their every twitch, yet his was being conducted, _in person_, by a navy admiral. Something was up.

"Let's drop the formalities son. I may be old, but I can still put you on your ass. Admiral Jeffrey Gordon." His wrinkled hand, speckled with age marks, was extended across the table, and was met firmly with the much younger hand of Shepard's as they stood respectfully.

"John Shepard... Sergeant now, if I'm not being fooled." Their cool blue eyes met each other, a striking similarity between them, but neither mentioned it.

"Well, John, you mind if I have a smoke?" He was already reaching into his breast pocked with his left hand, which Shepard noted had an old golden ring on, pulling out a deck of Lucky Strikes.

Five minutes later, the admiral was flipping through a strikingly familiar manilla folder, as the two of them went over after action reports: Tehran, Mali, Côte d'Ivoire, New Guinea, Tunisia, and a half-dozen other campaigns. "Tell me about Granada. There was a hostage situation, yes? What happened?" Shepard's brows narrowed slightly - the admiral _did _have his after action reports, and was yet deferring to Shepard's recounting.

His overwhelming curiousity was beginning to get the better of him. "Sir, permission to speak freely?"

The admiral chuckled, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with the upturning of his lips as if they were playing a game of chess and he had a trick up his sleeve. "In a minute. Tell me about Granada first."

The exasperation was clear on Shepard's face, and he was beginning to lose a bit of his already tempered patience, but nonetheless settled down to comply. "There's not much to say. Some nationals took an family hostage for ransom. We put it down."

_Three minutes. "Striker two-one, stack up and prep breaching charges. El-Tee says we go now." The radio crackled to life in his ears, the smoker's voice of Sergeant Dixon grating against his eardrums. The Lieutenant was rushing in blind; No thermal scans, no line of sight, nothing. "Dixon, if we rush this, people _will _get offed, them or us or hostages." His warning ultimately fell short; "... Understood, Shepard. Stack up."_

"Spare me the modesty." Admiral Gordon cut through the repressed memory, the smoke on his words curling in the overhead light. "You made a hard choice in there. What was going through your head?"

Shepard's eyes had turned frigid, the crease between his eyebrows deepening as his jaw set. "We had our orders."

_"Hit it." The charge blasted, making splinters of the previously sturdy door as a plume of smoke and fire burst from the entryway, narrowly brushing by the first man of the stack. "Breaching, breaching!" "Hands up, let me see your hands! Show me your goddamned hands!" Their shouts echoed in the expansive room. It was spotless, minus the mud tracks on the royal blue rug and remnants of a hand-carved door and parts of the wall scattered about the room. That, and the fresh blood spatters on the wall as shots raced out to meet their targets on both sides._

"Who went down?" For the first time during their meeting, the admirals eyes reflected the empathy of a tired commander who had long lived with the consequences of hard decisions. Dark shadows magnified the wrinkles and shadows beneath his eyes, and his mouth seemed to tighten against his will.

Shepard didn't have to try, the names just floated up to his consciousness."Dixon. Grey, Skylar. Collings. Damned Lieutenant was far removed from the zone."

_"Put the gun down and let her go!" The man's eyes shifted nervously, left to right, sweaty hand tightening on the pistol pointed straight up under the woman's ribcage. The bullet would travel up through her diaphragm, puncturing her lungs and stopping in her heart. "You've got nothing to gain and only your life to lose, just let her go. You _don't _want to do this." Shepard readjusted his rifle's aim a fraction of an inch higher, taking a half-step forward to reinforce his point. The man's other hand flexed suggestively, a cylinder of plastic buried in it. A detonator. If he took out the pistol, the woman would most likely survive a few more seconds till they were all vaporized. If he took out the detonator, the woman would almost certainly die._

The admiral grimaced, "You did warn them." and almost immediately regretted it as Shepard's voice tightened and went low, bordering on dangerous insubordination.

"You think that's _enough_? That I _warned_ them? Like suddenly she's no longer my _fault_?" His fingers uncurled slowly, stretching their limits before rolling into a tight knot. Joints in his hands crackled like popcorn. If he hadn't been a senior officer, he'd probably have been strangling him right then, but managed to keep his hands knotted in a tight, quaking fists.

_He saw the the tendons flexing in the mans arm and reacted instinctively before he had time to process the situation - his rifle barked once, the single round flying out to meet the hand holding the detonator. A half-heartbeat later, and the short barreled pistol issued its own report, and the woman jerked upwards. Her eyes... They bulged, and then slid, slid so slowly to the ground. She herself followed, the life ebbing from her dimming green eyes as her breath choked in her throat, wheezing from somewhere in her side as blood bubbled out of the gaping wound, staining the yellow sundress like an ink blot. A second, third, fourth round exploded into flesh, this time slamming into the man's chest like a fury-driven boxer. The fine-misted blood soaked through his shirt and tainted the yellow sundress, tainted her skin and tainted her hair._

Admiral Gordon's eyelids squeezed shut as his face remained otherwise impassive, and they might have shown a bit of pain had the man not been such a stoic hardass.

Several moments passed until his gaze slowly rose to meet Shepard's, whom seemed to be waiting for it. A madness gleamed in his eyes. "And you know what the best part was?" A laugh, a single, hollow, strangled laugh. "Here's the real kicker, that detonator? The detonator I chose over that woman's life? It was a fake. A goddamned ploy." The words were spat from his mouth, disgust and contempt overriding any other emotion in his voice.

"She had a daughter, too. Cute little girl, maybe eight, nine, hell I don't know. Little blond pigtails, bright green eyes. Looked like her mom." The strong voice cracked, Shepard choking as his anger welled up behind his tonsils. "She looked at me, over the body of her mother that I effectively killed - She looked at me, straight in the eye and asked why I did it." Cracking knuckles from white fists filled the pause. " 'Why'd you do it mister?', like I was supposed to have a _good fucking reason!_" A hush filled the room, disrupted only by the faint hum of electricity and a long exhalation. His voice had normalized as he spoke again."But you ask me... You ask me what happened, and all I'm gonna tell you is, I did my goddamned job. It isn't what I signed on to do, but I did it. Nobody else would."

Admiral Gordon leaned forward, elbows balanced on the precipice of the table with his chin resting on intertwined fingers. "What did you think it was going to be like?" He spoke the first words of a long silence; they sounded almost like a challenge.

"Hell, I don't know. I knew it wasn't going to be saving cats from trees, or holding doors open or whatever chivalrous thing I thought, but I wanted to do _something_ good. Save a village in Africa maybe, not play bodyguard to a politician stupid enough to live near a fucking war zone." Shepard's laugh was again tired, beleaguered with months of combat and the after effects of the more distasteful brand of humankind. "I'll do what I'm told, but that doesn't mean I'll be a puppet."

"Well, we might be able to help each other then. But first, I wanted to ask one more -"

"If you're about to ask for another war story, forget it, I'm done with that." Shepard's voice cut over the admiral's as he ran a hand down his short black hair and over the stubble that plagued his jawline, much to his own surprise. He half-expected - No, he fully expected a rebuke, mentally citing several codes and regulations about 'disrespect to a ranking officer', and wondered briefly if there existed such regulations in his favor. He was stupefied, then, when all he received in return was a amused smirk.

"Actually, I was going to ask about something more recent. How did last night's recovery go?

If he had been surprised at all, Shepard didn't show it, though his heart did a leap into double time. His eyebrows narrowed minutely before one climbed his forehead, but otherwise his facade was bulletproof. "Sir? I'm afraid you've got the wrong guy."

Gordon chuckled dryly as he shook his head slightly, and finished with a long sigh before he replied. "I don't get the wrong guy, usually." A digital photograph flapped onto the table, a printout from a security camera buried in the lobby vending machines. On it, a frozen Shepard followed by a stone-faced Dan stared straight into the lens as he passed by. "A curious resemblance, don't you think?" Shepard didn't easily give in though, half-heartedly shrugging as he yawned, even as his mind was racing behind closed doors. "But I'll believe you if you say it wasn't you. We'll talk to uh, Sergeant Daniel Moore later."

He had almost opened his mouth to respond, just catching himself before springing the clever trap. "Is that Dan in that photo? Hu-uh. Didn't recognize him." He spoke with a false loftiness that threatened to betray the worry challenging his mind.

The admiral, though, didn't seem bothered, or angry, or annoyed, or... Or anything, really. If anything at all, he looked pleased with Shepard's act, and a corner of his mouth tugged up in a sly smile. After what seemed like forever to him, Gordon slowly rose from his chair, collecting his cover as he did so. Out of respect, not to mention regulation, Shepard stood from his own chair, snapping into a crisp, well-practiced salute that was shortly returned. He breathed a silent sigh of relief as his 'interrogator' took a few steps to the door though it was followed by an equally sharp intake as he came to a halt and turned around, digging for something in his breast pocket. A business-card-sized plastic slip of some weight slapped on the tabletop and the photograph. "Thank you for your time Shepard, and if you happen to see Sergeant Moore later, or his..." He spoke with a somewhat sadistic amusement, "Unidentified, partner, give them this. Oh-six-hundred hours, tomorrow." There was more of that clever, almost mischievous echo of a smile, before he turned on his heel and exited through the heavy metal door.

It was a plain card, he thought, as he looked it over in his fingers after his company had cleared, clean white printed with the symbol of some unrecognized government agency on it. As he turned it over, his surprise was evident on his face; a magnetic strip lined the top, below it the card was marked **JS11 DM13** in clean-cut numerals, and below that, **141 Brighton Avenue**. _A key card,_ his conscious filled in for him, _but to what?_ The photograph still lay on the table when he noticed a strip of small lettering in the margin - It seemed it was from a larger report - and his stomach took an interesting drop as he read the small caption: _11 demonstrates exemplary character traits and genetic markers. Recommend immediate induction._

* * *

**1230 Hours**

John did _not_, as he thought he would, go straight to Dan following the odd meeting. In fact, he had intended to give him a rather wide berth while he stepped under an uncharacteristically dreary sky, out from the curious check up. A bitter sea wind whipped between the coastal palm trees, carrying the salty mists of the ocean over damp sands and cold concrete, crashing against the warm bodies unfortunate enough to have not worn windbreakers. John was one such of those poor souls, and he instinctively pulled his arms close to his body, tucking his quickly numbing fingers into his armpits. While the standard tan and brown digital combat trousers did a great deal to keep his lower body warm, the form-fitting gray undershirt tucked into his pants did very little against the buffeting winds, and he pondered for a moment where he left his jacket. There was, unsurprisingly, very few people outside, and those that were were similarly huddled against the winds and stepping quickly to their destination, which seemed to be whatever door was closest. John, too, found himself veering off at an angle, destination set for a creaky old metal door labeled with fading stencils indicating a physical training center.

It was warm inside, apart from the occasional gust of wind as somebody exited or entered the gym. The air conditioning was keeping the room at a mild twenty-four degrees celsius, and excess humidity was being siphoned out of the rooms. _A relief, at least,_ his thoughts had reminded him, before pursuing the question whose answer, much to his frustration, had largely evaded him: What the _hell _was going on? Barely a day ago, he had been relatively happy sipping overpriced brews on a beach chair in the California sun, and now it seemed as though he was in the midst of some massive experiment, one whose morality had yet to be determined. Taking a seat on a long bench, he began unlacing his boots while his brain raced hyperactive. The admiral had said something, had implied he might be able to help John get out of the drone of 'just enough' and to be a part of something bigger than he himself. Could it be true? He had seen combat in countless zones since enlisting five years ago – or was it six? He couldn't remember. In all those zones, all the operations he had been part of, every ribbon pinned to his breast, they all meant so little to him. He thought of the stars; how he loved to reach for them, and realized with a twinge of a hurt, that he could hardly recall anything of his four years of study upon them. Boots off, he leaned to pull a pair of PT shorts from his locker when he realized the locker next to his – Dan's locker – was empty. He was here as well, somewhere. _Shit. _It wasn't that he had any beef with the man, he simply wanted to maintain the guise of having not been accomplices, but it all seemed rather silly to him at that point. They _knew _what they had done, what they had read, and truth be told, they didn't seem to care much. Shrugging massive shoulders, he reached instead for a pad of paper that he used to keep track of his exercise routines, and fished a pencil from the back corners of the locker, before spending a moment writing down a note that he slipped through the grills on Dan's locker. His initials signed it off: _Weight room, 1300 hours. Urgent. JS._

It wasn't long before Dan had found him in the maze of barbell racks and weight trees, unpunctual as ever. The sound systems in each of the far corners of the massive complex blared old rock and 'angry rap' as some called it, and between that and the sounds of multiple metal-on-metal crashes of poorly operated exercise equipment, John didn't even hear the man walk up behind him as he sat on a bench-press' bench, the barbell loaded with several large plates. "I'll spot you, Shepard." He was grateful for the offer, but was more concerned with the issue at hand as his fellow marine wrapped his calloused hands about the bar.

"Give me a moment, just got through a set. Plus," his voice lowered, an excess precaution amidst the rowdy atmosphere, "We got bigger problems. Had my little check-up this morning, except mine was, well... different." A raised eyebrow prompted him to continue.

"You said you had a research team? Well I ended up talking to a four-star admiral." This time both eyebrows shot up Dan's forehead, the surprise clear as day on his gruff face. "Yeah, I know. Anyway, we got talking, and instead of the usual psych questions and such, he starts asking about Granada and Ecuador and Zimbabwe. Spot me." He lay back on the bench, seating his back firmly before pushing the bar up.

"A'ight, so some navy guy wants to talk after action reports. What's so bad about that?" Dan asked after a minute, as he helped guide the bar in its rise. "Seems like no big deal."

John exhaled hard as he strained to push the bar up and onto the bar rack, annoyance flaring as Dan asked him a question mid-rep. "_So_," came his retort as he began opening his nearby drawstring bag. "He showed me this." As he unfolded the photograph, it took barely a moment's time for Dan to recognize John's worry. "Seems someone is aware of what we were up to, and to finish it all off, he gave me this. Pretty sure it was _all_ off record too." He continued as he retrieved the plastic key card before finishing. "Said for us to go to that address at oh-six-hundred tomorrow morning." John paused as he took another deep breath, partly out of breath from exercise, and partly as if summoning up some sort of strength. "Dan... I want to go."

Dan had taken in the information at a surprising rate, proving once again he was not all brawn, and was quickly stuffing the print and card back in the satchel. "Of course you do Shepard, you're crazy as shit."

The muttering continued for several moments before Shepard cut in. "Think about it Dan – If they wanted to court-martial us or whatever, they'd have just had the M.P.'s pick us up. The admiral, Jeffery Gordon I think, he said he could get us out of these bullshit diplomatic ops. Do something worth doing. I know you're about as okay as I am with what they've had us running around for."

Dan looked hesitant still, mulling over what John had earnestly pointed out. And not without reason, too; high command _had _been putting them on shite runs so far. He absentmindedly spotted the younger marine's bench-presses, the indecision clear on his face before speaking up. "Look, Shepard, I'll go with you if you really think this is good idea – I owe you that much for helping me out – but I gotta say I'm not comfortable with it. Seems pretty risky."

John grunted with strained exertion as he struggled to set the bar back on the rack after his tenth repetition, his spotter apparently having forgotten what it means to be a spotter as he spoke. "Yeah, you're right, and if it doesn't feel right we'll hightail it out of there and be back to drinks on the beaches before the day is out." He spoke as he stood collecting his belongings, pausing before he turned to leave. "And, Dan? Thanks for having my six."

With an affirmative nod, the marines went their separate ways, prepping for the coming morning.


	4. Chapter V: Initiation

**November 15th, 2027  
****Cheyenne, Wyoming  
****Cornerstone Medical Research Facility  
****2200 Hours**

Cornerstone never closed.

At any given time men and women with dark bags under their eyes would be shuffling about the sterile white hallways, weaving in and out of automated doors, heads buried in project clipboards or arguing with co-workers. There was a curious flow to the facility wings, like the smoothness of finely shimmed gears meshing with each other. Not once in four years of operations had there ever been any sort of impedance or mismatch of data in those hallways. The facility was engineered for perfection: Biometric-sensitive automatic doors kept data labs compartmentalized, closed-cable light-diffracting picometric uplinks allocated data at rates of a full half-petabyte per second, interweaved electroshielding and cyberwarfare software made their networks virtually impenetrable – Even their power was not reliant upon outside sources, instead generated several hundred feet below the surface by unreported means. The facility was engineered for perfection, and it was engineered to produce perfection.

Doctor Erin Shaw, then, was a very pleased woman as a lead researcher of one of the most advanced facilities in the northern hemisphere. Her office overlooked the bottom-most level of the facility, in which sat twenty steel gurneys and twenty unusually bulky sleeper pods masked in darkness. To others, the view was unlikely to be worth a second glance, but it afforded herself a room in the heart of her operations, and she would eventually look out upon what she lovingly considered her 'children'.

As if on cue, a journal-sized pad blinked to life, a mote of hazy blue light pulsing above it – primitive holographic technology. Giddy with uncharacteristic excitement, her hand swiped through the star and it dispelled its light in a final pulse, bringing the tablet's screen to life with data reports that she waved off until the blinking message came to the foreground of the device: _Arrival of group six is reported as of 2203 local time. Doctor Shaw is requested on deck zero, loading bay two. _A feeling of contentedness spread over her dainty form, from the tip of her toes to roots of soft black hair pulled into a classic bun. It was a feeling she had not often been reacquainted with in her forty-six year lifespan, a fact that had often made itself readily apparent in a mirror. No matter, Erin was a somewhat vain New York woman.

The clean white doors of her office split apart with the dim whirr of electric motors as she quickly moved to the corridor the fifth and final level of the complex. Sub-level five was split into four different, visually-similar wings that expanded like an 'X' from a central elevator, and it was this elevator she was headed for as she mentally prepared herself to meet her final group of volunteers. An elderly, bearded gentleman met her twinkling eyes, a knowing smile spreading across his face as he passed by with an armful of what she guessed were restriction enzymes in thin plastic-glass tubes. She passed with a quick two fingered wave, heading down the short length of hallway at a brisk pace.

Steel-gray double doors pulled apart with a hiss, opening to the central elevator as a scientist watched over several lab technicians carefully unloading a shipment of electron-pulse microscopes. The last of the plastic containers were unloaded as she spun on her right foot and jabbed a back-lit button on a panel close to the door, the earlier feeling of content being rapidly replaced with a building excitement. Four floors above were what would become the grand finale of their research, a long decade's worth of failed experiments and horrific results. Prior volunteers had suffered full mental breakdowns as neural networks decayed under the influence of the hyperconductive silver microcapacitor lines, but they had solved that – actually they had more or less scrapped the entire idea. One volunteer had suffered innumerable micro-abrasions on their muscular structure as synthases rapidly overloaded their bodies with adenosine triphosphate, but that was merely an arithmetic oversight. Past these and other errors, she realized, there was still no reason to express her eagerness so visibly, and so her fingers ceased drumming against the rail of the elevator, the corners of her lips resisting before settling down into a tight-lipped half-smile. Inside, though, she was nearly bursting at the seams, and debated hitting the button for the top floor again when a bell sounded somewhere in the mechanics above the doorway, and the steel double doors eased open once more.

* * *

**July 22nd, 2027  
****San Diego California  
****0500 Hours**

Owing in large part to an influx of sleep medication and extreme calisthenics, John had had little trouble falling asleep a full eight hours earlier. It was more the waking up that had him muttering in discomfort, as his muscular frame burned away as tribute to rigorous exercise. The night had passed utterly uneventful, dreamless and empty, something he rather preferred over an opposing offering, and he mentally recounted the simple reconnaissance plan he had figured on before drifting off to sleep the night before. It would be utterly foolish to simply waltz up to a zone without gathering intel, so he had set his alarm a hair earlier to scope out the address.

Dan was waiting for him in the mess hall, surprisingly calm as he gulped down some sort of protein shake and bit into the first of several slices of toast. John had half-expected him to be largely uncomfortable with what they were about to do, but when prompted, he had shrugged and said "I figure I ain't going nowhere here, even if I stuck around for a few more years. Isn't much fun being the pawn of a politician no more." John found himself agreeing with his blunt analysis before swiping a piece of his friend's toast.

"Well," John began, speaking through a mouthful of food. "We should probably head out. I wanted to see what we're getting into before we go too far." Dan merely grunted before replying.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to speak with your mouth full?

"No, too busy causing trouble and jousting with hot-headed marines." He shot back, lips tucked into a thin grin. "We should move," He added, as an alarm began softly playing some radio station on a man's bed stand in the barracks. "I don't want to have to explain what we're doing when everyone else gets up."

* * *

As it turned out, 141 Brighton Avenue was only about a dozen blocks away, a short jog for the two marines currently enjoying an additional breakfast in some brightly lit hotel serving an early morning continental spread. They had originally only intended to use its vantage points to scope out their destination, but John's stomach had had other ideas as it belligerently reminded him of just how little he had eaten over the past twenty-four hours, and the smell of buttermilk pancakes and orange juice that had wafted under his nose did little to prove otherwise. He had reasoned that since there was no guest-verification system in the kitchen or dining room, they were practically _asking _to be taken advantage of, and with that the two marines had sat down to a short stack of fluffy goodness and a tall glass of orange juice. Besides, they had nearly half an hour to spare.

"Hu-uh. Never thought I'd see a stickler like you doing anything so _horrible _as scoring a free breakfast." Dan had scoffed at him as they leaned back in their chairs, stretching and and enjoying the feel of good hot food in their stomachs.

"I told you, they were asking for it." Was all he said back, short and terse. He was not beginning to doubt himself – he rarely did – but he was beginning to feel... uneasy. Like they were getting in over their heads. He banished that feeling to the corners of his mind, determined to enjoy the moment as it came. Dan, though, had sensed his concern.

"Something eating at your mind Shepard?" He spoke up, voice level under the din of other diners.

John shook his head. There was nothing bothering him, really. "Just something I realized. I've known you for a year and a half and I don't even know where you grew up."

Dan shifted and threw his hands up in front of his chest in mock defense. "What's this, breakfast, and now you want to know me better? I said I liked pretty barmaids, not hardass marines, Shepard."

John snorted, shaking his head in disbelief and resting his head against the palm of his right hand. "Well, at least I know you're an asshole." his blue eyes rolled to the extent of their sockets at the marine's tomfoolery. "Obviously I didn't mean like that. Hell, I just figured I'd know you better by now."

The words 'grew up' didn't seem to sit well with Dan, as the light of merriment had been slowly extinguishing in his eyes and his bulky frame stiffened noticeably. His dark eyes surveyed John's face momentarily, as if looking for some hint of a set up, before he exhaled deeply and relaxed in his seat. "New Mexico, place called Roswell. Didn't really do much growing up there, not like normal. Didn't learn much about spelling, or math or science. At least, not until I holed up in a library on 5th."

The crease between John's eyebrows deepened, and his head cocked to the side; he had never really considered that any marine had a past. "You lived on the streets?" He questioned after a few seconds of silence passed.

Dan's eyes drifted to the edge of the table between them, food and drink forgotten. "You could say that. Wasn't much living to be done there. Whole lotta death and despair, but ain't much living. I didn't know my parents, so I was raised in some dingy little orphanage, till they kicked me out for getting in a scrap with another boy there." His shoulders heaved as his memory worked. "Kid had been picking on a group of girls after their heads were shaved. Lice was everywhere in there."

"So what, they kicked you out for being a roughhousing boy?"

"I knocked his jaw outta place."

"Oh."

"Yeah, well, he deserved it. Ain't no reason to be picking on people smaller than you." He spoke firmly, as the fingers on his right hand curled inward before flaring out. Standing up for others had always been important for him, like a core value he had never been taught, and had never known where it had come from. "Either way, they had me out the next day. Nothing brutal, just talked about it, told me I couldn't stay there anymore. They even helped me find find work as a library assistant, of all things. Fuckin' crazy, right?"

John had to admit, he couldn't picture the two-hundred-and-ten pound, six-foot-two man in front of him as either a teenager or a library assistant, but the thought of him playing nice around an elderly librarian drew a hearty laugh from him anyhow. "I didn't think you could even read." Was all he managed between short gasps of breath.

"Yeah yeah yeah, go ahead, make fun of it. Miss Josephs was like a mother to me, even if it took time for her to warm up to my being there." The big marine shook his head, "I remember this one time I was fourteen, accidentally left the ink pad for sign-outs on another book. Little thing leaked ink like a faucet all over the book. She was _mad;_ made me go searching all across town for a replacement cover and spine for that thing. Homer's fuckin' _Iliad_."

"Either way, took me a full week to find a replacement. Brought it back, all happy like, and all she said was '_What are you waiting for boy? Get to it_'. Still have that same book somewhere back at base, she let me keep it afterward. Turns out not many people still read books, so it was just gathering dust."

"So you enlisted right out of school – or, well, the library?" John pressed, though his eyes were flickering between Dan and two peculiar men in a far corner of the room.

"Hell yeah I did. Where I lived, there wasn't anything to live for except the next hit, if that was your thing. Saw a lot of decent people get killed there. Enlisted and was out shooting baddies by the end of the year. Year later..."

But John wasn't listening anymore. There was something distinctly familiar about those two men in the corner. They were clearly military, close-cropped hair and lean bodied, dressed similar to him and Dan in tucked PT shirts and single color fatigue pants. The dark skinned one was a bit shorter, but equally as big, and there was something that bothered him about how they were acting.

"... So yeah, got latrine duty for weeks after that. Pretty sure I still have clothes that smell like shit from then." It wasn't until then that he noticed John was hardly paying attention, realizing his eyes were directed well over his shoulder. "There something going on behind me that I should know about?"

Dan had recaptured John's gaze, whose lips were pulled in a sly smirk, unabashedly chuckling before responding. "I don't know yet. There are these two guys in the corner, something feels wrong about them." It took Dan all of a single look over his shoulder before he erupted into a fit of barely-contained snickering. John was not amused.

"I'll tell you why they look off to you." he spoke through his grin, "They look just like you. Hell, look at where they're sitting, they're probably scoping the same place we are."

It hit John like a load of bricks, and he realized Dan was completely right. Both of them were shifting on the edges of their seat, passing subtle glances out to the entry way of 141 Brighton. One was habitually checking his wrist watch every minute, on the minute. The other was speaking in a low voice, and only clipped ending reached his ears. Both had untouched food in front of them. John found himself running a hand through his half-centimeter buzzed black hair, a habit of his that betrayed how uncomfortable the situation had suddenly become. He exhaled long and slow, before looking at Dan with a hint of amusement in his eyes. "What say we go introduce ourselves?"

"I was thinking the same thing." Dan replied, as they both stood from their tables and collected their dishes, moving off to the trash receptacles. One of the men in the corner had acknowledged that they stood up, but his face lacked any concern for it, and John felt some relief in his veins. They certainly weren't being followed, not by those two at least, and so the pair dumped their paper plates and plastic utensils in the bin. John altered his course just a fraction, grabbing his drink before they moved towards the men.

"Gentlemen." He spoke as he swung a chair from a nearby table into place and dropped down onto it, the chair's back facing the window and his legs about it. Dan had done the same, easing into his chair the right way about, and both of the strangers stiffened as they turned, one's hand drifting down to his pocket. "Take it easy. I only came over to ask if you've seen anything going on over there." He gestured across the street with the key card in his hand. "Name's Shepard."

"You got some fuckin' balls sneaking up like that... Shepard." One of the men breathed out, the terseness in his voice a clear indicator of his unease. John passed a laugh as he gulped the last of the orange juice in his styrofoam cup.

"Well, had to be sure you weren't going to jump us as soon as the clock hits six."

"And how do you know we still won't?" The mocha-skinned man had asked, hand still hovering near his pants pocket in what John assumed was a combat knife. Both of the men looked similar, high cheekbones and relatively wide jaw bones, smooth shaven with dark buzz-cut hair. John merely smiled, a bit sheepishly, as he looked between the two.

"I don't, but the way this card" He held up the key card between two fingers as both of the unfamiliar mens eyes locked onto it. "Caught both of your lasting attentions, I assume you've got one of your own and that we're here for the same thing."

"Yeah. You're right... Don't mind him, he's been on edge since he was first approached. Hell, we both have actually. I'm Frank Taylor, that's Pat Ward." Pleasantries were exchanged all around as the bigger of the two introduced the pair of them. "And yeah, we've got some of them cards too, though I'm... hesitant, to use them. Either of you two know anything more about this?"

Dan shook his head; the little they knew would only serve to enhance any misunderstanding. John found himself in agreement, but spoke anyhow. "Not much more than you, probably. What it sounded like to me was... Actually, I don't really know. That's what I'm here to find out. You two ready to go, or are you staying behind?"

Both men chortled with derision before Ward looked at him with hesitant eyes as the three of them pushed back their chairs and stood. "Lead the way, Shepard"

* * *

**November 15th, 2027  
****Somewhere near Warner Springs, California  
****1900 Hours  
****6th Special Operations Squadron (SOS)**

If Admiral Gordon had thought he looked like shit before, John wondered what he would have thought if he saw him and the haggard men of the newly formed 6th Special Operations Squadron then. They were an odd conglomeration of expeditionary marines, rangers, and other special-warfare groups all banded together in an impromptu designation just prior to being loaded into a 2½-ton cargo truck and shipped off... somewhere. That, of course, was months ago.

_Months ago; when Shepard, Moore, Ward, Taylor and sixteen others had all entered 141 Brighton avenue, out of curiousity and a need for answers. What they had found held no answers. In fact, the only thing it held was several medical personnel that issued them along in a straight line, needle-less injectors popping as various immunizations and enzymes flooded their bodies. It reminded him not lightly of boot camp several years ago. An hour later, Admiral Gordon was introduced as the head of some project – at the time, Shepard's mind was hazy at best after the treatments – which aimed to develop a superior shock trooper, the same project that he and the others were now a part of. And then, everything went dark._

_When he had awoken several days later, he was on a gurney, limbs strapped down as fluid lines pumped blood samples from his body, and other lines pumped clear fluids into it. Ocular scanners had beamed light lines across his eyes, and he would have sworn to seeing what looked like magnified nerve endings in his eyes as the light passed over his pupils. Human arms held limbs straight as similar devices passed over each of them, the light so bright that it actually caused him minor discomfort, a light tingle wherever it shone. Small needles had taken tissue samples from all over his body, puncturing his skin and pulling muscle fibers out from below before dropping them into vials that were sealed shortly thereafter. Another needle prodded in the pocket of his elbow, and the world had faded to black again._

_By the time the sedatives had exited his body, they had been moved from the previous facility and its gurneys. He had found himself laying on a typical drab cot, the wool blanket below scratching at his naked back. Rolling over, he felt the slight twinge of numbness where the tissue extractions had taken place – Good, he had thought. That meant less than a few days had passed. A drip stand stood next to his cot, the IV bags hanging with fat sacs of some liquid, but the tubes and needles hung unconnected by them._

_For a minute, he had wondered where he was. Pure white walls gave way only to a windowless door. The cot he sat upon was centered on the wall furthest from the door. An extruding shelf held a change of clothes that he began easing into, the dog tags jingling as they bounced around on the beaded chain resting on his chest. The tan combat pants and light gray shirt were immediately familiar, as were the sepia brown boots he laced up his shins before standing. "Hello?" He spoke to the silent hum of seemingly far-off machinery. Any further thought was immediately cut off as a speaker echoed with a faintly robotic-sounding warning system from the corner of the cell-like room. "Audio disturbance detected. Note: Heartbeat elevated. Beginning session 001-A." No further recordings played before the door burst open to a man wielding a baton, whose every inch of skin was hidden behind black cloth or polymer plates._

_He reacted immediately, his left foot sweeping in an arc as he dropped to a knee, throwing the intruding soldier off balance as Shepard planted his left foot on the ground, swinging about with his other at the now falling soldier. His boot caught the black masked man at the collar bone, sending him crashing into the door that he had entered from before slumping down against it. He checked – unconscious, or at least non responsive – and pulled the baton from his outstretched hand. With a flick, the two foot pole extended from the handle, and he noted several similarly-dressed intruders approaching. Training had begun._

Shepard's memoir was disrupted as someone punched his shoulder lightly; In the dark of the bed of the cargo truck, the twenty figures that were split between the two benches were indistinguishable, the light withering over the dark fatigues they all wore. Regardless, he knew who it was.

"Something up, Dan?"

The man sitting across from him swore. "How d'you always know it's me? Spill."

"You're the only one dumb enough to do it." He replied coolly, fixing the marine with a stare shortly before grinning. "If you're about to ask what we're going, I don't know. They don't tell me any more than you do until we get there."

'There' was a relative term. None of the twenty men really knew where 'there' was, only that it played host to their deployment grounds. Over the past months, they had been shaped into direct action groups, deploying in secret mostly as quick strike forces or to bolster a larger unit. Operations were padded on both sides by nearly endless training, learning more than he had thought possible in such a short time frame: Advanced hand to hand combat, close quarters tactics, diversionary and special resource tactics, how to use forces as multipliers rather than basic infantry, deep combat maneuvering and the list went on and on. A significant amount of the otherwise considered unavailable training was done in simulated environments – virtual reality, they had said, that replaced sleep and select other down time. The result was several months of nearly uninterrupted training and combat with little side-effects, not to mention, of course, a significant lack of rest.

* * *

**November 15th, 2027  
****Somewhere over Nevada,  
****2000 Hours**

The large supply jet's engines droned incessantly, the vibrations seeming to reach down his spine as they flew at fifty-thousand feet above the surface of the Earth. Twenty men shifted in their shockingly uncomfortable seats, each bearing a relatively lightweight combat loadout. Their weapons were clamped into place above and to the side of their seats, short barreled with dimpled suppressors attached, weapon sights sitting far back on the top rails of the weapons. In the red light of the cargo hold, twenty men sat waiting for their drop zone.

A large yellow light came to life near a slowly opening cargo hatch, and the sounds of the engines magnified in response. Wind whipped about the fuselage, wispy clouds passing underneath as each of the men stood and took final preparations. For John, that meant fitting a sleek, visored helmet over his head and clipping an oxygen mask into place on the lock pins. He inhaled sharply, feeling the mask begin to feed oxygen with a depressurizing hiss. Looking up, he noted four of the men standing by the opening ramp and moved to join them.

"We all set for a jump?" His voice issued over their communications units. The same four men that had comprised his squad for the past few months looked at him and nodded shortly. "Right on time," John added, as the red light powered off in favor of the green one below it. It was oddly calming. "Let's get to it." Was all that was spoken as the four men jumped from the aircraft.

Wind rushed past his ears as John held his arms at his side, head down in a brutally fast dive. Five men shot from the air like bullets, hundreds of meters traveled in mere seconds. The other men of their squadron would be dropping at set intervals, each approaching their objective from a different side. Their objective, currently a group of tiny lights as they descended upon it, was a single mostly-underground bunker in an outcrop of rocks. Project security had detected an information breech somewhere in the server farm two hours prior, but had been unable to seal the leak before several terabytes had been uploaded to the bunker now directly below them. A brick-sized black box pattered against thermate grenades on his leg as they was buffeted in the wind, held by elastic straps to his belt. The mission was clear, simple by any standards: Drop in, find the offending server farm, and cover the black box while it thoroughly destroyed any scrap of stolen data, and then melt certain essential hardware. _Should be an easy out._

He checked the data readout on his wrist, the altimeter reading a touch above five hundred meters, and as if on cue his squadmates were yanked out of view as their parachutes deployed. He heard his own fire, his velocity lowering just slightly before coming to an abrupt declination as his breath was pulled from his body. The worst part of parachutes, he had decided, was the feeling of being pulled by a hook behind his spine as the chute dragged him to a mere five meters per second in a horizontal plane, and he ground his teeth against the nausea that rose in his stomach.

The tree tops soon became readily defined, the broad green leaves shifting in the breeze like little sails as his boots touched down, scraping against the dirt as he landed in a run. A pull of the latch on his shoulder and the chute sucked into the pack on his back like a vacuum, and he undid the clamps on his weapon on its side. Taylor was the second to touch ground, followed shortly by Ward and Dan and they followed suit, retracting their chutes and equipping their weapons. Whereas Ward had consistently preferred longer ranger rifles, the other three loaded sub-machine guns, the bolts firmly pushing rounds into chambers. John keyed the comm unit in his helmet as he discarded the oxygen mask. "Move out."

* * *

The plan had undeniably gone to shit.

Bullets thudded into the supply crates John took cover behind as he dropped an empty magazine from his gun, reaching for another on his abdomen. Before he could reach it, an armored security guard turned the corner around the supply crates, machine gun sweeping towards him at near point-blank range. John blurred into motion, hand gripping around the barrel of the rifle before brutally yanking it away from the guard. There was a loud cracking as his other fist landed squarely on the man's jaw, and his grip loosened on the rifle just long enough for John to pull it from him, using the stock of the weapon as a battering ram to the guard's abdomen twice before he spun the rifle and fired two rounds at point blank into his chest. The guard slumped against the opposite wall, blood smearing on the gray concrete wall.

More gunfire chattered into the night from around him, as Dan took aim at a fast-approaching guard and squeezed the trigger. The man crumbled under a dithering hail of fire. Taking a risk, John leaned out from cover to take stock of the situation, and swore when he realized they were in a wide but very nearly barren hallway.

"Pat! Backtrack for one minute and try to find another way through! We might have missed something on the schematic." The microphone in his helmet snapped to life as soon as he spoke, a short band of static whispering over the channel before fading.

"On it, Shepard, but I don't think I'll find anything. This seems like a well-purposed choke-point." Pat's deep voice sounded in his helmet as he peeled off their flank, his boots echoing down the hall.

"Taylor, Dan, we're going to take as much ground as we can. Push up, but keep the fire going!" Two more affirmations sounded over the channel before John spun around the corner of the box, bringing his submachine gun to bear on a retreating guard. He felt bad, for a moment, shooting someone in the back, but he silenced that as a burst of well placed fire took the man in his back. The trio were advancing, three sets of combat boots thudding against the floor as brass shell casings danced below them. They were slowly advancing, firing and covering each others reload and taking what little cover was available when the far-side bay doors pulled apart, and riot-shield wielding combatants poured out. Alone, one shield was an easy task, simply spray the shield until the carrier messed up. The dozen that had entered the playing field? Not so much.

"Pat, tell me you have something!" John somewhat desperately keyed the comms. channel, as he fell to cover behind a rather short crate. The channel was silent. "Pat! We've got numerous hostiles closing fast, and I'd appreciate a response!" his shouts increased in a matter of seconds, as he leaned from cover and let out a spray into a pair of boots twenty meters away. The shield-carrying guard tripped, guttural cries of agony issuing from his mouth before another smattering of rounds caught him in the chest.

_"Here, Shepard. There's no other entrance. Returning to reinforce."_

"Negative!" John cut over his squadmates transmission, and heard a breath of protest before he continued. "Take the HEAT munitions for the doors and place them roughly," His eyes swept the ceiling above, mentally measuring the distance from the doorway. John was not a betting man, but the tiles looked maybe half a meter long. "Place them roughly forty meters from the door, angled forward."

The sounds of bewilderment from Dan were not unexpected, but Taylor seemed to grasp the concept well. "Bringing the roof down on them?... Well, they did say you were crazy."

"Yeah, well, I make a career of it." John snorted as he spoke, knowing it was uncomfortably true. Too many times had he or his squad been pulled out by the skin of their teeth on some basis of incredible luck.

_"Charges set, Shepard. I hope you know what you're doing."_

Voices clashed over the channel as Dan spoke. "Screw that, I hope _you_ know what _you're _doing!"

* * *

Pat Ward was not a particularly skilled explosives expert. Sure, he had gone through the same training as everyone else in the 6th had, but they were easily his least developed skill, so it was with some rightful hesitation that he stuck the heavy conical charges in the thin dirt. Weighing in at several kilograms, the charges could punch a clean hole through just about anything that was unfortunate to roll over it, be it tank, flesh, or any other such things. It did not rely on shrapnel to maim, puncture, or wound, but rather made shrapnel out of whatever was between it and its target – At the very least, the concussive force could throw even the most brutish man on his rear.

Which is exactly why Pat suddenly did not feel very comfortable holding the detonator to a charge that could potentially make mince meat out of his squadmates below. The detonator was standard equipment, a wireless cylinder with a flip-switch and thumbprint scanner. The light on top had a very dim green glow to it, signifying that all that was left to do was pull the lever.

_Jesus._ "Charges set, Shepard. I hope you know what you're doing." He swallowed visibly and steadied his hand as the channel came alive again.

_"Screw that, I hope you know what you're doing!"_

"Me too." Pat smirked uncomfortably as he whispered inaudibly, exhaling and squeezing the trigger-lever. A gut wrenching, bone-shaking explosion rent the night air.

* * *

At first, Shepard had thought it was his life flashing before his eyes, the space barely five meters ahead glowing like the morning sun. He was dimly aware of static breaking across the radio as his ears rung out like a full church choir and dust and smoke expanded rapidly over his head. Twin dull thumps sounded one after the other, and chunks of dirt and scorched metal spun overhead. A gloved hand extended from the fog, fingers gripping the armor plate in his carrier.

"Shepard! Shepard, on your feet!" Pat's voice echoed in his ears, the ringing still drowning out most sounds. Pat was pulling him to his feet as he spoke."Jesus, thought I got you killed for a second there."

"Can't get rid of me that easily," Shepard chuckled as he spoke, his hands lifting off his combat helmet to prod at his ears. "I seem to recall a whole team of heavies being just... Oh." His face hardly contained his surprise. Where once there had been a looming threat, there was now nothing but chunks of concrete and smoking-hot rebar. An arm, laden with a rather odd looking wristwatch, stuck out at an unnatural angle beneath the pile of rubble near Dan's foot as he and Taylor surveyed the wreckage up close. "Hell of a way to drop in, Pat." The man smiled sheepishly.

"Shepard, there's a gap here that we can squeeze through, provided you haven't gained too much weight from sitting back while you let everyone do your job for you." Dan's voice came from a few meters forward.

"Shut your yap, Dan. I seem to recall somebody taking an extra 'last dinner' before every mission." Shepard called back in mock-seriousness. Dan was quite fond of his victuals.

The hole was hardly big enough for Shepard, the rubble scraping and pawing at his gear as he pulled himself through to the waiting hands of Taylor and Pat, who pulled him through the rest of the way. Dan, ironically enough, had the most trouble, having to strip off the bulky armor carrier and pass it, along with his weapons, through before he could pull himself through. That was hardly a problem. The problem was now in front of them, and it came in the form of a very heavy, very tough-looking set of doors.

"... Don't suppose you'd have any more of those charges would you?"

"Nope."

"Well, that's unfortunate."

"Uh-huh."

Shepard pondered the situation leaning against a wall as his squad conversed futilely. They were automatic doors, which typically opened via recognized biometric status. Briefly he considered dragging over a dead guard so the system would open, before remembering that the doors were usually programmed to open for _live _personnel. Besides, this door in particular didn't seem to have the typical black shielded strip that was the biometric scanner. _They did open it somehow, and if they're not bio-scanner operated... _His thoughts drifted off. The group of scientists that had fled through the doors had waved their wrists in front of a red light, which Shepard was now inspecting. There was a small pin hole below it.

"Dan." He spoke suddenly. His three squadmates were bickering now about something that sounded distinctly like 'badass score'. "Dan." Only after the third try did his team realize he was speaking to them as they hurried over, muttering finishing points of something of the nature.

"Yeah Shepard, what's up?"

"I want you to go see if you can find anything on those bodies that would look some sort of key. Could be a chip or something along those lines." He responded shortly, scraping over the pinhole with an exposed thumbnail.

"Sure thing. By the way, we decided, that whole 'blow-through-the-roof' thing doesn't count towards your score." Shepard huffed at that, somewhat exasperated at his teams attitude, though he knew it was equal parts good fun and coping.

* * *

"You think this will actually work?" Taylor spoke tiredly, after they had tried to get through the door for nearly half an hour straight. They had gone over the dead guard's entire equipment package, pulling anything that looked like it could be used for an electronic 'open-sesame' signal and waving it about in front of the door. It was morbidly amusing at first, but had soon grown tiresome. Shepard looked over the guard again; The only things left on him were his clothes and his armor carrier, and his wrist watch. _His wristwatch... _The dial housing was oddly large, as if it contained something that was rather more than a timepiece's mechanisms, and he found himself undoing the magnetic clasp and slipping it off the man's wrist before looking to and fro it and the pinhole below the light.

In hindsight, he should have warned his team, but they probably wouldn't have been able to do anything. There was only a split second before the light flickered green and the door hissed apart, anyhow, not really enough time to warn them _and _combat the man holding a pistol in his shaking, outstretched hand. The muzzle flashed once before Shepard's hand brought the gun down, his other fist smashing and bending the man's elbow in unnatural ways. Bones crackled and ribs splintered as his boot slammed above the man's solar plexus, nearly deflating his chest cavity and knocking him cold. _Odd._ He shouldn't have went down that easily. It was only then that he realized he had attacked some lab-coat wearing middle-aged man, whom had foolishly picked up a pistol in defense.

Shepard muttered something about 'silly antics' before he stepped over the unconscious scientist, scanning the room with the the man's pistol. A door sealed shut in the far corner – perhaps he had stayed behind as a delay – but he dismissed it. Scientists weren't what they came for, but he issued orders to secure him for transport either way. He continued up to what looked to be a large stack of servers, his squad following behind him as they spread to and swept the corners with their submachine guns. He noticed, then, that he was strangely out of breath; a curious turn of events.

"Uh, Shepard. You know you got a bullet in you right?" Taylor warned from over his shoulder. Shepard reached down, thin-gloved fingers patting at his abdomen armor plate, noting the warm stickiness that had begun to drip from a melted hole in his main plate. Apparently their advanced armor was _not _for point-blank range – He'd have to remember that.

"Noted. Find the servers, set the thermate and charges and we'll exfil in five with our friend here." He spoke gruffly, pausing to catch his breath mid sentence before reaching for the red grenades stowed on his belt. His hand landed on the large black box first, as if reminding him of its purpose. Wipe the data, _then _burn it down, his mind echoed at him. The black box's plugs were stretched to various ports on the server boxes, and it came to life as he hit the power switch. A panel of lights on the side blinked as it deployed the information-hunting code, scouring through all previous outbound transmissions for data. He had read a few things about the scrubber, and to the best of his knowledge it would piggyback on any connections to purge data anywhere it had been sent. Good enough for him. Several agonizing moments later and the lights on the scrubber shut off, its work completed, and he stowed it away as he primed the thermate grenades.

"That hit looks pretty bad, Shepard. You sure you're good?"

He nodded somewhat weakly, content to watch the grenades burst into brilliant white-hot showers of sparks and molten metal, spraying their contents in a short radius before the stuff began melting through the thick aluminum server boxes. The flaring from the core of the fires was unnerving, brighter than anything he'd seen on the Earth, and he thought for a moment that they were, in a way, beautiful with its refined yet incredible power. Certainly dangerous enough, as he felt pin pricks as the temperature in the room steadily rose. The pin pricks continued all the way down his spine, to his finger tips and his toes. An interesting sensation, he thought, resisting a sudden urge to fall asleep.

"Let's... Let's get... Shit." The floor rushed up to meet him as the room faded from view.

* * *

**November 15th, 2027  
****Cheyenne, Wyoming  
****Cornerstone Medical Research Facility  
****2200 Hours**

_Inside, though, she was nearly bursting at the seams, and debated hitting the button for the top floor again when a bell sounded somewhere in the mechanics above the doorway, and the steel double doors eased open once more._

The scene in front of Dr. Shaw was nothing like she had been expecting. She was looking forward to seeing her new group being guided through the bay doors, perhaps perplexity evident on their faces. She had been expecting to instill a sort of trust in them, trust that she knew she would need in the time coming.

What she was not expecting was her loading bay to become a hub of chaos, as orderlies rushed to load wounded and bloodied men onto stretchers. More than a quarter of the group were currently being tended to by fast-moving orderlies, their scrubs and lab coats stained deep crimson as blood squirted out of multiple wounds of various nature. She herself was next to a crash cart, hands deep in the toned abdominal wall of a rough looking marine, his blue eyes rolling about with lazy sedation as her gloved hands worked the pristine tools in them, searching out fragments of the .45 caliber round that was buried in his chest. The round had bounced off the lower edge of his ribcage, propelling it away from more vital organs but splitting the bullet into several strips of brass alloy – not necessarily a good prognosis, but it was doable. The problem was the amount of blood that had soaked into his uniform and armor, not to mention the pools that had flowed over the soaked cloth.

"He's going into hypovolemic shock! Nurse, call surgery and prep them to receive. Start monitoring BP via catheter!" Her voice rang out over the hubbub of frantic calls as she plastered a petrolatum gauze patch across the bloody hole. "Chest tube, and start that lidocaine!" She called, hand unfolded beyond her side expectantly. The orderly behind her fumbled about, eyes wide as his hands made a mess of the cart before a dark skinned uniform smacked the drain tube in her hand. She was only dimly aware that it was _not _her orderly that had handed it to her, but nonetheless found the same soldier snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves, telling her he was beginning a tetanus prophylaxis, antibiotics, _and _lidocaine drip, and her brow raised curiously – Not many corpsman' were so quick on the uptake.

"Good," She spoke urgently, slitting the skin between the fourth and fifth ribs with a scalpel. Blood oozed out of the clean cut, overpressure from behind bursting in red bubbles, "Hand me those forceps and let's get started on this tube."

"Forceps." The pair landed in her once again outstretched hands. The pair conversed quickly as they worked, the processing of information barely interrupting the flow.

"How's BP doing?"

"Not good, he's not breathing like he should. We need a respirator quick."

"Put him on a non-rebreather at fifteen liters, keep it going."

"BP still no good, one-forty over ninety-nine. Get that chest tube in or he's a goner."

"Inserting tube... Clear. Get me that suction unit and I'll start him on it."

"That's not a collapsed lung is it? Oh-two saturation is still low, reading seventy-percent."

"The lung is fine, oxygen is going up. Pressure dropping... Jesus Christ that's a lot of blood."

"BP at one-ten over one-hundred... Stabilizing."

Erin's shoulders slumped tiredly. The man with the gunshot to the chest, whose red med-tag read "**Shepard, John**" amongst a variety of biomedical information, was stable and would, in theory, survive. The bullet had nicked several blood vessels, and she had almost lost the patient, the subject, before real procedures had even begun. She sighed, shaking her head while surveying the bay around her. An entire quarter of the group hadn't made it, being hit with so much shrapnel that their bodies had shut down before plasma had even begun to enter their bodies. They lay on the gurneys, entombed as orderlies zipped up black body bags. The rest of the 6th had watched on in the background, the few medically-knowledgeable of the bunch helping out where they could as the rest stood, jaws set and tight-lipped. To the extent of her knowledge, they had only been formed for a handful of months, and the bonds they had developed after countless unreported operations in various sectors were unusual for the time they had served together.

"He took that round from the prisoner over there. Shoulda knocked him flat on his back, but he barely seemed to notice. Disarmed and knocked the hell outta the guy though." The man with dark skin spoke to her, a single chuckle emanating from him as he tore off his gloves. His name-tape identified him only as 'Ward'. "Anyone else, me included, wouldn't have left him alive – He just shrugged it off, kept going, told us to prep him for transport. Crazy dude." Two more men approached the gurney, shaking their heads in both disbelief and agreement.

Erin looked her patient over again; His taut chest rose with weak respiration, the oxygen mask clouding most of the face and stubble that encircled his mouth and lined his cut jaw – a handsome specimen, no doubt, but unusual nonetheless. Most of the men that had come through her doors had gotten there through ruthlessness, a selfishness that rarely carried compassion for life. This man, and the men she had so far met under his command, seemed different, like they believed in something larger than themselves. A first, and hopefully not the last.

"Yes, well, this..." She checked the tag around his wrist again. "Shepard, he should be fine. His breathing will be a little weak for a day or two, and it'll most likely continue to cause pain after that, but otherwise he should be fine if we can get him to the OR soon. Help me get him onto the backboard." With a bit of struggle, Shepard was eased over and strapped into the backboard, and with that, doctor Shaw moved away, her heels clicking on the steel flooring.

* * *

Lights swam across Shepard's vision, blurry faces hovering before drifting away. A tempered numbness radiated from his lower chest before he remembered that he had been shot. A low groan of pain issued from his mouth as he recalled the specific events; He preferred the bullet over the surgery and subsequent extraction, much of which he was dimly conscious for.

"Welcome back to the land of the... Well, the conscious." The familiar voice originated from a slowly-sharpening doorway, and he blinked against the haze in his eyes. Dan's image sharpened, leaning against the doorway, his thick forearms slung low across his chest. "You know, usually being shot slows you down, and not nearly pulverize a man."

The pistol-wielding elderly gentleman. Ah. "How's our package doing?" He grunted as he pushed himself up to sit against the pillow. He was suffocating under the blankets, but he had never been a fan of the airy nature of hospital gowns.

"... And you're certainly not supposed to care about it after you do." Dan snorted in disbelief. "He's fine. You stopped short of collapsing his rib cage and a team of interrogators will grill him after he recovers. I'm more concerned about you; How you holding up?"

Shepard's lips straightened in a controlled grimace as the fluxing that radiated from his bandaged torso increased to a steady throb. "He was just a man covering his people, not like he asked for a fight. I'm good, but I want out of this bed. How long have I been out?"

Dan was grinning as he tilted the bedside chair back on its hind legs, using the gurney as a foot rest. "Don't freak out, I know you hate being down. You've been out for about a week, kept under sedation so you didn't try getting back to work. Here, brought you something. Figured you must be starving." An apple flew through the air towards Shepard's waiting hand, the deep red skin reflecting a matte glow from the lights in the room.

"A full week, and now I'm getting bedside service? Don't I feel special." He spoke through a mouthful of the crisp apple, mulling over the first firm food he'd had in a while. "And lazy. Can't forget that. What have they got you guys doing around here? And, on that note, where is here?"

"We're in Cheyenne, Wyoming." A soft female voice radiated from the open doorway. "And as for your men, they've been keeping busy."

"Yeah, yeah, 'keeping busy'. We've been shooting targets and keeping in shape, that's all." Dan interjected, somewhat uncomfortable with the level of activity they had been kept on. "Shepard, meet the doc that saved your life, or something like that. Doc, meet Shepard, pioneer of all things senseless."

"A pleasure to meet you, miss...?" Shepard extended his hand as the middle-aged, if somewhat matronly doctor approached. His hand was met with the far smaller hand of the doctor's before he shook gently.

"Shaw, Erin Shaw. Though 'doc' and 'doctor' and even 'ma'am' seem to be everybody's favorite." She shot a look at Dan, who grinned sheepishly as Shepard looked on, before returning her gaze to her patient. "How are you feeling, sergeant?"

His laughter, dressed in playful sarcasm, echoed in his sternum, and he was all too aware of the hole in his body. "The recovery was actually worse than being shot, though I think I'll avoid both from now on. Out of morbid curiousity, how deep did it go?"

"Let's just say you owe me a new pair of gloves – mine got soaked when he had to haul your ass back to the extraction point." Dan chimed him, eliciting near-simultaneous eye-rollings from the doctor and Shepard before they faced each other to continue conversing.

"It was in you pretty far, even despite your armor slowing it down significantly. I hope you've learned a lesson about jumping in front of guns, sergeant." Her severity was laced with cynical amusement and a peculiar interest. The way she looked at him made him feel distinctly like a zoo animal, though not entirely as disturbing.

Though it was good news, he could not brush the feeling that he should be doing something. It had been a full week since he'd been in training or in combat, and despite only being awake for a few minutes, his fingers were already twitching with restlessness. "Well. Thank you, doctor, but I need to speak with my friend here about our situation, if you don't mind..." He looked towards the door and back to her, the question in his eyes.

Beside him, Dan grinned smugly before leaning forward. "I already know what you're about to ask; we don't have any new orders. As for the doc here, she's actually our new boss for the time being." The doctor nodded with a small, confident smile. "Straight from the top, actually." He added before leaning back. Shepard's jaw flexed as he tried to voice his confusion, the uncertainty still welling up. "Well... What now?"

"I decided that we'd wait for the entire group to recover to semi-operational status before proceeding on." The doctor took a short step forward as she spoke, eyes surveying his own as he came to grips with new command structure.

One of Shepard's brow rose, a curiousity lingering in his eyes. "Proceeding on with what, exactly?"

A short smile tugged at the doctor's pursed lips before she replied to the pair, hesitant all the while. "Over the next few days, you'll be undergoing..." She paused as she searched for the word. "Procedures. Procedures aimed to increase your capability in combat."

A hint of recognition dawned in his eyes, a second before Dan came to a similar conclusion – apparently he was equally unaware. Shepard spoke first, bluntly, if a bit suspicious. "You mean like gene therapy? I saw some files, documents on various peoples genetics. Related?"

Erin shifted on her heels, suddenly a bit uncomfortable, if not mildly amused. "Ah. I had heard about a breech in one of the data warehouses. I assume that was your doing?" Both men nodded without embarrassment. "Well then, you already know most of it. Nothing invasive, nothing dangerous. Think of it as an overclock of the human brain, unlocking its potential. In theory, all you'll notice is an enhancement in perception, your reaction time, and general endurance."

The room was quiet for several moments as the men digested the information, surprisingly calm. The clock in the corner ticked as the seconds passed, before Shepard blinked and shrugged his shoulders as resignation set in. "Well, as long as we don't become freaks of nature, it's fine with me."

Dan nodded shortly after. "Yeah, no terminator shit though alright? I don't want to be some giant freak either. But... maybe you'll be able to dodge the next time, Shepard."

A short bark of laughter escaped Shepard's dry lips, shaking his head before refocusing his gaze on the doctor, whose tight-drawn lips were parting in quiet speech. "The last time we experimented with enhanced muscular strength, Sergeant Moore, the subject bled out from intensive and violent muscular deterioration."

The statement caught both men by surprise, and for a moment Shepard searched for humor in her face. There was only solemn pity. "If you don't mind ma'am, I'd like to know what you're going to do to us... before you do it." The way he spoke, it was hardly a request.

She nodded in understanding, a small smile on her lips. Normally she would hesitate to provide such information, but the man inspired a certain element of confidence and trustworthiness. "I'll see if I can send some files your way soon. Until then, I need to check in with the others, and I believe Mr. Moore here has some things to do as well. Good day, sergeant." And with that she turned and exited.

Shepard waited a moment, making sure the doctor left before he looked towards the rising man near him. "Hold up." He spoke quietly. Dan shifted on his feet uneasily. "She said 'the others'. What others?"

* * *

Several hours later Shepard was sitting against the pillows, eyes scanning a long medical report. To his surprise, the doctor had made good on her promise, hand-delivering the advancement papers to his room before bidding him a good night. He noted, though, the bottled solution of some clear liquid, and didn't miss the near imperceptible nod to it. Dan's casualty assessment had caught him off guard, a somber mood perpetrating his previous cheer. An entire quarter of their force had been decimated, ambushed and surrounded by explosives and soldiers, and while he wasn't in charge of them, he still felt sickly responsible for their deaths.

The good doctor's report had kept his mind busy and otherwise off of the deceased, though he understood only parts of it. A shame she couldn't have provided a translation he had thought. Synaptic response time, increased muscular phosphate storage, nerve-way capacitance, occipital capillary tracts, dense caltrate supplementation, it was all so foreign to him. A full list of extensive test results accompanied it, easing the majority of his worries about unpleasant side-effects. He would still be human, he thought, and that's what mattered, and with that in mind he picked up and observed the small bottle. _When you're done..._ it was labeled, and the corner of his mouth curved. Of course, she wasn't supposed to show him these.

The liquid, which he assumed to be some sort of strong acid, ate through the fibrous documents with shocking ease, leaving little more than a pile of paper sediment in the bottom of the tub as it worked. _An interesting development,_ he thought as he closed his eyes and drifted off.

* * *

(Thoughts? I know I'm not great, but feedback is always appreciated)


	5. Chapter VI: Rage, Rage

**November 22nd, 2027  
****Cheyenne, Wyoming  
****Cornerstone Medical Research Facility  
****1100 Hours**

Nearly sixty meters below the surface, dull thuds of gunfire echoed through the meagerly insulated walls of the facility, the hammering of semi-automatic fire reaching even the furthest corner. Every few minutes would it cease completely, the void filled by the unintelligible conversation and laughter of the shooters, and during this cessation operations continued unperturbed.

"Didn't those soldiers get to do enough shooting before they came here, or do they just enjoy bringing it wherever they go?" A researcher named Donald Budrejko muttered to his companion, a balding and somewhat heavyset man beset with thick-rimmed spectacles, as the pair dripped two thin solutions together in an Erlenmeyer flask.

Behind them, in a thin and plain plastic chair around a similarly constructed table, Dan snorted loudly through his water. Since being barred from making any more 'house calls' during which Dr. Shaw had told him he was acting like a lost dog – among other things – he had taken to wandering the hallways of their new operations center, much to the doctor's repeated annoyance. In between exercise and virtual training sessions, most of the crew had kept relatively busy, only now having resorted to live fire exercises in the expansive base.

"Aw, we just like to keep you on your toes." There were the beginnings of a smile on his face as the research team nearly fumbled their work.

The indignation in Donald's voice was high and clear, though somewhat warbled by his rolling accent. "Is it _really _appropriate for you to be sneaking around like some sort of... like some sort of spy?!"

"... Did you... _not_ notice me here when you came in five minutes ago?" Dan answered, genuine surprise seeping into his words.

Whatever retort the pair may have thought up was perforated early by the resumption of target shooting. "Well, I'll take that as my cue." The man was very nearly shouting over the rising din as he rose to leave the room, keying the door control and striding out with his hands in his pocket. Almost inaudible, a cheery work tune emanated from his lips, and the look the researchers shot him was worth several laughs to him.

The problem was, the men were _bored_. Not once in their short existence had they been inactive for much more than a few hours, and after a full week of 'rest and relaxation' their energy was aching for a long awaited release. Typically they would burn themselves out via exercise, but, much to the shock and horror of the team, the facility had nothing but the extremely bare necessities in equipment, and even then it was relegated to physical therapy sessions.

A doctor passed him by in the hall, ears clad in the now commonplace orange sound canceling muffs, a thin smile across her attractive face evidence that seeing a hunk of soldier whistling as he stepped in his lively jig was not at all usual.

The two passed with a friendly, if somewhat unexpected nod, and Dan continued his musings. His mind wandered over his first visit to Shepard's room, specifically the conversation including Dr. Shaw, and he debated seeking her out to press her for information. It wouldn't go very well, he knew – he didn't have the same charisma and confidence that Shepard just radiated – but at the same time her staunch vagueness had left a lot to be desired. It was especially frustrating now that he had learned that none of the rest of the guys were told anything at all; when he had asked, he had been met with blank stares and veritable surprise. He made a mental note to ask Shepard what the good doctor had given him for information.

A significantly sharper, and much closer, crash of something hard on metal was enough to shake Dan from his revelations, and he paused mid stride near a swinging door. Above, the plastic cut out indicated the door below led to a supply room in large, blocky backlit letters. A rather large supply room, as it were, and currently entertaining a small fraction of the 6th and a handful of the facility's staff surrounding two men circling each other. Boxing? One of them he recognized easily, the lean form of Pat ducking and weaving under pistoning fists, the other correcting the overthrown punch with a quick step forward and bringing his foot around counter clockwise. The spin came up mostly empty, only the heel of the man's foot clipping against Pat's ribs as he leaned hard out of the way. Pat's sharp elbow jabbed against the backside of his partner's leg, and even Dan winced as he watched the brutal charley-horsing as the two circled one another, one man limping on a spasming leg.

Curiousity – and amusement – not yet sated, he pushed through the swinging door quietly, watching as the two traded and parried blows that would cause trauma to a lesser man. There was, of course, an unspoken 'no lasting injury' policy, but blood was riled so there was little knowing what was going to happen. He came to a stop a few steps behind the researchers, whom he noted had ditched their typical lab coats, and crossed his arms, surveying the scene in front of him from the dim light under a perforated sheet metal gantry. The two of them sitting ahead of him were still wearing their shirts and ties, though from the looks of it the collars had long since been unbutton and the knots loosened similarly. They couldn't have been more than thirty – both of them lacked the telltale loose skin and white hair of the majority of the staff there, and he was not entirely surprised to see small notebooks in their hands, pens diligently scratching away.

A wet crunch indicated a strong hit landed, and he looked up to the sparring ahead of him. Pat had taken a tough blow to the jaw, and he could see the telltale marks of the impact already forming. He was not, however, a lesser man. His body seemed to roll with the punch, rotating as he dropped to a knee and delivered a hard elbow line drive straight to the man's floating ribs and continued to grip his off-wrist before tucking his body in low. A half second later, his opponent was on his back, Pat's knee pressing into his sternum. A chorus of moans and cheers went up from the crowd, seated upon off-white supply crates, the two meter long boxes serving as benches for the rowdy bunch. It amused him to see so many of them exchanging bets on the outcome, but amused him more to realize exactly why the two very out of place staff members were there.

"You boys really do like to study us, huh?"

A throaty chuckle followed Dan's words, the rumbling voice settling to the side of the pair scribbling in their notebooks. As was usual, the pair seized up momentarily, the shock and subsequent nervousness evident in their shifty eyes and wobbling voices. "N-no! We were... Well, yeah... we um... We were t-told to um. Watch. And stuff."

The anxiety dripping from their voices briefly reminded him of the boys back where he grew up. On occasion, bored gang members and in-general hoodlums would leer at them, spewing curses and other vulgar language from beyond the primitive safety of the chain-link fence. The other boys would huddle in the center, behind whatever things they could drag over. He alone had never shown his fear to them.

"Relax kid, ain't nobody here real offended with what you're up to." Pat's deep baritone shook Dan from his recollections, his fellow soldier rubbing a bruised jaw tenderly as he took a seat opposite of him. When his face had reflected a certain amount of concern, Pat waved him off with a laugh, saying he had probably deserved it for toying with his opponent for so long, before inclining his head towards the pair of youthful researchers. "What are you two writing about there?"

The comparatively more gutsy one swallowed visibly before responding, the eraser on the end of the pencil tapping against the paper. "Just um... Sort of like a uh, a review. See how well you perform now and then um, again later."

"'Later'?" Pat had, as expected, picked up on the subtle and probably accidental hint. _Damn_. Dan had forgotten to tell the rest of them what was going on, in part because he couldn't find anyone, but mostly because they had _all _become preoccupied with finding something to do.

"We um.. We're not really allowed to, you know... talk about this. To you... At all, so uh..."

Pat's brow furrowed shortly, his lower eyelids pulling up into a full-on mock scowl, and held for several seconds like that as the pair withered under his gaze. The tension was quite tangible for some moments until Dan spoke from next to them, "Careful there Pat, I'm not cleaning up after any leaky pipes." The silence broke instantly, the corners of Pat's eyes crinkling above the wide grin that echoed laughter. "C'mon Pat, let's go find Shepard. He knows the down-low." Dan spoke as he rose, his rough hand pulling Pat up by the armpit, much to his discomfort.

The two pushed through the double doors as they conversed lowly, their voices hardly audible even in the silence left by the absence of range-shooting and cheers of men.

"So Shepard knows what's going on? Isn't he still confined to bed rest?" Pat queried as they passed a group of staff members.

"Nah, he's supposed to have gotten out today I think."

"Doubt anyone could stop him either way."

* * *

Restlessness coursed through his veins, like unbridled energy infecting his marrow. Shepard's chest heaved as he moved about the room, the deepness of his inhalations testing the bounds of his repaired diaphragm. The cellular fusions were holding well enough, but they oft reminded him of their damaged state with sharp tweaks of white hot pain. The sensations, in turn, infuriated him, as he demanded a level of performance his body could hardly manage. The feeling of helplessness was not one he was akin to, but it pervaded his every movement. It was the same feeling that drove him to literally up and walk out of the care unit he was told to stay in, fingers dancing with an eagerness for activity.

The heavy bag he had found earlier in the far, dark corner of a fitness supply closet was far too light, and it bounced about on its loose chain as his quick strikes impacted on its nylon skin. The room was silent except for the dull blows and his rapid and pervasive thoughts, buzzing with the untapped energy of bed rest. Something wasn't adding up. The men of the 6th were good, great even, at what they did, yes, but there were numerous more skilled groups and individuals that they could have tapped for this project. Other Special Warfare groups would have significantly higher success rates than they did, so why them?

His train of thought was hardly interrupted as the door screeched against its hinges and the trio that was his squad filed in. The underweight bag continued to fly about, only coming to a halt in Shepard's outstretched hands when Dan had rather aggressively cleared his throat. "Seems a bit light for you, Shepard. You're not going gray on us are you?"

The resultant shake of his head was something Dan had ought to be used to by now, but for the most part Shepard ignored his jest, focusing instead on the unusual meeting that was taking place.

"All three of you, at the same time? Now, I know you didn't miss me _that _much. What's going on?" He spoke before he uncorked a water bottle, downing several mouthfuls of the lukewarm liquid and unwrapping the cotton cloth from around his knuckles.

Dan took a seat before speaking through a partially stifled yawn. "Well, I already told everybody else all I know about what's going on here, we're just curious now as to _exactly_ what they're doing."

"You mean you want to know what the doc showed me, then? Take a seat."

* * *

It had taken the better part of an hour to pore over his memory, his mind whispering no more than mere hints of what he had read and understood of what Dr. Shaw had delivered. It came as a surprise that none of the remaining men in the task group had been bothered by the prospect of undergoing the project, and it did not well with Shepard.

"What bothers me though, is why us? We're good, but they could have recruited straight from NSW or any other group like that."

The four of them were seated in a square, the heavy bag serving as a bench for Shepard and Dan as they leaned against a wall, the floor sufficing for Pat and Taylor.

Taylor nodded, agreeing and speaking for the first time of the day. An unease spread over the room, as they individually thought about their situation. For a moment, Shepard's mind unwound to the 'early days' as they had begun calling it, when they were serving in their original capacities. None of the guys would believe what was going on. Hell, not even his _parents _would believe it, if they were alive, none of his family would – "Holy shit."

"Dan, you grew up without a family right? No connections external to the military?"

"Yeah, so – "

"And Pat, you were an only child, parents killed in a botched robbery?" The feverish light in Shepard's eyes skipped right over his squadmates visible discomfort with the question, absorbing only the short nod before they shifted to Frank Taylor.

"Taylor, your – "

"Yeah, they're gone. They're all gone, so what?"

Dan caught onto his train of thought a fraction of a second before Shepard could open his own mouth to speak, though the incredulity was hardly bereft of his face. "What, you think they wanted us because our families are gone?" Shepard merely nodded bleakly. "Think about it. Who would you tell if you wanted to blow the whistle on this?"

"... Holy shit."

Somewhere in the ceiling above, an intercom loudspeaker crackled to life. "6th Task Group to the med-bay, repeat, 6th Task Group to the med-bay."

Knowing glances were exchanged amongst the men, as they rose from their seats. The new information changed nothing. There was a job to do, and they would do it.

* * *

**November 24th, 2027  
****Cheyenne, Wyoming  
****Cornerstone Medical Research Facility  
****1200 Hours**

The first – and only – thought that went through Shepard's slowly waking brain was that of an intense frost, the burning desiccation crackling down to his finger tips and his toes. Every nerve in his body was gilded with dry ice, every bone seeded with dull aches, every muscle needled with a thousand pins. The lights above him, though only typical fluorescent bulbs, shone like the sun, and the surfaces of the room were cast in profound detail. An electrical beeping to his immediate right sounded off like a klaxon, the frequency increasing to a solid screech. His wrists jumped in cloth restraints at the slightest hint of a command, tendons and veins rising to the surface of his skin like fractured mountains. His legs did the same, the quadriceps shifting over bone to rise with exacerbating pain. His body pulsed with an unfamiliar and animalistic nature, adrenalin pumping at unforeseen levels, seeking hold in every muscle of Shepard's body.

"_His body is trying to reject the..." _Voices faded in and out under the throbbing pitch of biometric equipment. _"Stabilize with twenty milligrams of..." "Put him under and flood him." "We can't do that, it could kill him!" "We're running out of time... External breaches... Security protocol is to purge subjects."_

He became acutely aware of a needle hovering a millimeter over the cubital vein in his left arm, eyesight splitting the difference as it slowly – unusually slowly, a part of his rearing mind spoke – descended upon and dimpled the skin, before sliding past the dermis effortlessly. A new fiery feeling of pain flared from the precise spot of puncture, before his vision dimmed and slid into an oily black.

* * *

The aftereffects of the procedures had been excruciating, but the staff had woken those they could as soon as the early-warning sirens had sounded. Shortly after, information pipes had been intruded upon and pumped full of bogus data and situation reports took considerably longer to process through, and by the time they had, the slow-rising men of the 6th were being tasked with various objectives. Dan, Taylor, and Pat had geared up and rode the elevator in relative silence, each trying to assuage their protesting bodies as status reports rang out over the interior speaker.

An explosion rocked the bay doors of the top floor of Cornerstone, the red hot tendrils of flame spitting through the resulting gape in the heavy metal shielding. Two dull gray cylinders were subsequently tossed through – flashbangs – before they detonated, a blinding white flash preceding a shattering percussive blast. The trio was faster, though, having ducked behind hastily positioned supply crates and plugged their now overly sensitive ears as soon as the devices had tumbled through. Jackboots clapped against the dirty steel panel floor as Dan keyed a signal over the radio. On cue, the overhead lights snapped off as the breaker was pulled, plunging the windowless bay into total darkness.

Their vision adjusted quickly, though the rough transition had Dan blinking away what felt distinctly like cramps in his eyes, and the three of them swung up as one. Muted warbles echoed off the walls as his suppressed submachine gun tore into one quick-footed aggressor, and the dead mans finger clenched on the trigger of his weapon. The unhindered muzzle flashes flared like lightning storms against the dark walls, and Dan dispatched another a few meters further with short work.

To his left and right, equally quiet fire from Taylor and Pat hit targets, their aim quick and jerky as they adjusted to new reflexes. In the dark and without night vision, the breaching force was cut down with quick and brutal efficiency, the anguish on their faces lost to the shadows.

The radio chortled briefly, interference weaving its way through the channels. "_Squad two is getting hammered, counting at least a dozen inside the bay, unknown outside. Recommend permanent –_ _kzzzzhhhhzzkk"_

Fading to static was rarely a welcome tone, and the three of them acted quickly on Dan's orders, whom had taken over in Shepard's absence. "Pat, set charges on the supports. Taylor, let's make sure nobody can use the elevator from here after we're done. We're shutting this bay down and moving to reinforce squad two." Taylor moved off quickly towards the doors, but Pat remained a moment longer to complain about his dislike for handling explosives before following suit.

"_All personnel, be advised: We're abandoning this facility. Those... Still under will be transported via sleeper tubes to a secure facility. New orders are being sent out." _The OLED display on Dan's wrist flashed to life as some anemic voice read the words on it. With a tap of the screen, he sent his acknowledgement as he handed Taylor a propane torch. The nozzle of the pipe welder was speared with a cold blue flame as Taylor melted and burned through the door control circuitry.

Pat's footsteps quietly scuffled up behind him. "Charges placed. Probably put down enough to level the place and drill a hole through the ground, but whatever works."

Dan chuckled mirthlessly. "You're supposed to be helping us get out, not burying us in."

"Stop having me set explosives and I'll see what I can do. Any word on how we're exfil-ing the pods?" The same question had risen to Dan's mind, as the units themselves were bulky, weighing in at nearly a quarter tonne unoccupied. The two-and-a-half meter long units would negate most regular air extractions, which would likely leave trucks and other wheeled vehicles their only options – not exactly ideal.

"We'll have to hope they scrambled a transport package to assist. 'Til then, stow that welder, and get ready to clear the next bay."

The three of them stacked up on a connecting hallway on each side of the door, checking ammunition and other gear. On cue, Taylor swung out from behind Pat, pivoting neatly on one foot before his other pummeled the area just above the door's handle. The lightweight aluminum door crashed into the gleaming white polymer plating of the wall, a mere moment before the last boot crossed through the doorway.

The hallway was quiet, clean, and unusually empty. Less than an hour ago it played host to several staff members and their plastic gray carts filled with all manner of things, and to see it so barren was unsettling. Fifteen meters down the hall, and they came upon a similar door, one that would lead to the bay where second squad was supposed to have defended.

"Dan, I ain't hearing anything that sounds like a fight going on. I think two is gone."

Dan could only agree, nodding grimly before motioning to stack up once again. "I'll enter first. If there's anything that doesn't look like one of the 6th on the other side of this door, move for cover and mow them down." They both nodded once, the three of them stacked one behind the other on the hinge side of the door. A heartbeat later, the puck shaped detcord charge above the handle detonated, the force violently throwing the door open as Dan stepped through...

… And came face to face with a heavily armed man, who was raising a sidearm as his rifle skittered across the floor, caught in the explosive force of the door charge.

The pistol rose with an unnatural slowness, as if it were underwater, as adrenalin coursed through his system, the already overclocked nerves responsible for his vision going frantic with activity. His right hand closed on the slide of the pistol, locking it down as his left swooped low to collide under the man's ribcage. He recognized the incoming feral left that was mimicking his own punch, and dropped his elbow low to deflect the blow, splitting knuckles as the other hand brought up a combat knife, the point glinting with deadly light.

What he lacked in general finesse, Dan made up for in brute strength. With a vice-like grip on his attacker's knife-wielding hand, he spun on one foot, planting the other as he came back-to-back with the man before tucking in and throwing the man over himself. He landed with a meaty thud, still connected to Dan as two large hands clamped over knife hand. A shift of footing leaned the majority of Dan's considerable weight over the turned-around knife, and it drove hilt-deep in its owners chest.

Taylor had significantly less trouble, a half dozen targets between him and Pat as they strafed around behind cover. The bolt clicked open on his submachine gun, followed immediately by the empty magazine dropping from the gun as a fresh one slammed home. A light squeeze of the trigger as the sights came to bear toppled one combatant, the smattering of rounds stitching his chest with red buttons of blood. A large caliber pistol tolled, the booming cracks followed by a body toppling into view. Dan had taken the pistol from a man now lying on the floor with what looked like a knife buried in his chest, the movement so fluid and effortless it was almost disturbing.

If Pat or Taylor were bothered at all by the result of the deadly hand to hand, they made no mention of it, Pat only offering his hand to pull their squad mate up as he brushed himself off. The scene around them was strewn with bodies, of which they noted four of their own pulled to the side. At the very least, they had taken a number of enemy with them.

The chains of the dog tags of their fallen jingled almost cheerfully in Dan's clenched hand, belittling the atmosphere around them as they dripped with another mans blood. A silent chuckle, a shaking head, few words were exchanged between the men.

"Let's get the fuck out of here."

* * *

"Doctor, we _need _to get the packages prepped for transport, power in the units indicates that all semi-permanent cryogenic assisted options are off the table. We simply don't have the power anymore." A bespectacled staff member followed at the heels of Dr. Erin Shaw, who was else-wise busy scanning through a readout on her tablet. The power plant below them was still fully operational, but the cryo-pods – dubbed 'sleepers' by most – had to be cut off from the power to move them.

Behind them, a handful of orderlies pushed four gurneys loaded with restrained men, the biometric equipment next to them beeping incessantly as vitals fluctuated. "What's the status in the subjects? What's going on on the inside?"

"Their bodies went into overdrive as soon as the capacitance packages were injected. It is like their immune systems are trying to fight off a disease. The responses are characteristic of – "

" – Friedreich's?" She finished.

"Similar, but the cells are still encoding the frataxin, so the genetic patterns aren't being disrupted like they would be." The man added, a thick hint of Ukrainian roots dripping from his words.

Her fingers found their way to the bridge of her nose, pinching as she mulled over her options. The decision did not come quickly, as klaxons wailed and interrupted her thoughts and lightly armed soldiers swept by at a steady jog. The staff behind her came to a sudden halt as she did, some of them tripping over their own feet as they strained to stop the heavy gurneys. The closest patient to her was particularly familiar, the only one that had really known what was going on, and had still agreed to it. _Well, John, I'm afraid it has come to this_. "Get them in the cryopods, then sterilize and raise levels of interleukin thirty-five and cytokines. We want to delay the immune response, not end it completely. Afterward, give them a double dose of the synthase structures to make up for losses... And pray for the best." The orderlies nodded furiously and double-timed it to the lower med bay, prepping skin with various chemicals and fluids.

"What you're doing is risky, doctor... Risky, but it may work. We've already lost several of the patients, and with combat losses above, we have maybe ten left. I hope you know what you are doing." The Ukrainian man spun on his heel after a moment of speculation, his hands busy cleaning his glasses with the hem of his shirt. She herself was silent in her own thoughts, lips drawn in a tight line as she observed the activity around her. Dozens of staff personnel were pushing valuable carts of documents, some of them ducking into offices to secure or purge data. An explosion rocked overhead, and the corridor dropped into darkness momentarily before emergency lighting kicked in, casting the halls in pale illumination. Red exit signs blazed angrily against the matte of shadows, and the central elevator dinged weakly before opening to three quiet men. She, of course, recognized them, but hardly acknowledged their approach.

"Ma'am, upper floors are... secured, ready to move the packages. Ma'am?"

Several seconds ticked by until she broke from her reverie. In front of her stood the three she considered to be John's squad. She noted, with a sad hunch in her shoulders, that they were alone. "I take it no other teams will be following you?"

"... No ma'am."

"Very well, follow me." A tiredness crept into her voice as she began walking, welling up behind her eyes and tonsils alike. So much research cut short, but she knew it was more than that. This final group had been something... _different._ They weren't unmatchable or superior as far as subjects go, indeed the third group before them had been significantly more compatible, but they were unique in the camaraderie that they brought with them.

"If you don't mind my asking, ma'am, where's the rest of us? The ones that didn't... wake up." Pat's distinctly low voice rumbled in her ears.

She knew exactly who he was asking about. "Sergeant Shepard will be fine." It was laced with false hope. "We have him and three others in cryopods, joining the remaining two."

The numbers were added as soon as she spoke them; Nine of them left. Nine of twenty. Judging from the muttered curses behind her, she thought, they were no more happy than she was. They at least seemed to think further ahead.

"How are we pulling them out? Ground transport is too easy to track."

"Agreed, specialist Taylor. Last I heard, Admiral Gordon scrambled two Ospreys suited especially for the job."

"Wonder why he had those so easily on hand."

"You may not like him, but the admiral is a smart man, Frank. I seriously doubt he rained hell upon his own project while he was in the very facilities housing it." She spoke sharply, short and curt and with seamless logic.

"Apologies, ma'am. I meant no disrespect."

She turned her body in full, rounding on the grim-faced specialist. "I don't think he would mind, but if you keep calling me _ma'am _like I'm some white-haired cane-wagging geriatric, I _assure_ you, you _will_ find my tallest heels wedged _firmly_ in your rear."

The doctor's complete revulsion to vulgar language had small smiles garnering on the mens faces, even as they looked down upon her short frame. "Yes... ma'am."

* * *

Shepard's eyelids twitched. Behind them, his brain worked at a furious pace, taking in sensory information from non-visual receivers as he was eased onto the gel supports that lined the angle platform of the cryotube. The tube would have him nearly standing, leaning back on a gentle slope as the thick polycarbonate shell closed over him like a casket. The muted hiss of pressure locks cued his eyes open, only to be met with the cursory darkness of the sealed tube. His numbed fingers stretched out unrestrained, sliding over the smoothness of the polycarbonate shell as his eyes futilely tried adjusting to the light – only there was none. There were no windows, no light panels, nothing. As his body slowly came to, he was distinctly aware of the lack of... of anything. He felt nothing whatsoever.

In the 'void', his mind kicked up a gear, immediately recalling prior events to provide _some _sort of feedback. _Hell of a time to become introspective _he thought, as a woman in a yellow sundress swam to his vision, slipping to the floor and dusted in the blood of another man. _Why'd you do it mister? _The scene ruptured in a fiery explosion, and in its place was a broken street and a cane-wielding man slowly hobbling down it. A gloved hand rose in front of him, he recognized it as his own, and he called to the elderly man. Thick veins on his neck pulsed to the rapid beat of his heart, but no sound came from his mouth no matter how hard he strained. Another ball of flame enveloped the elderly man, the detonation rocking the very ground he stood on, as he stumbled over his own feet, the blacktop rising quickly to meet him. A child's hands caught him, the thinness in his wrists discordant to the apparent strength of the boy. The silence pervaded his dream, the only sound issuing from the detonator around the child's midsection. He tried to warn him, tried to shout and move his arms, but they were unresponsive. There was a smile on the boy's face, and the world burned brightly in front of Shepard before snapping off as small nozzles sprayed a fine mist inside the tube.

* * *

"Heartbeat is elevating, brainwave activity is increasing... I think this one is waking up, Doctor."

"Put him back under." Dr. Shaw spoke as she walked by. One by one, the tubes eased down on hydraulics to lay horizontally, before being picked up by a small magnetic crane and put onto reinforced trolleys. The entire facility had been cleared out, all data downloaded to local hardware and purged from the system, the remaining staff and soldiers gathering in the lowest floor of the facility.

"Gentlemen," Dr. Shaw spun on her heels once more, coming face to face with the three tall men that followed her in full combat load. "Are you ready to get out of here?" Three almost imperceptible nods were all the answer she received. "Good. I need you and the rest of the 6th to..." The men paid rapt attention as the doctor outlined her plan, nodding once before peeling off to re-equip.

* * *

"_All teams, prep flashbangs and double check your weap__ons. We only have one shot at this."_

The remaining five able bodied men of the 6th Task Group crouched behind thick stacks of aluminum floor plating, taken from the lowest level and bolted together with long shafts. They were spread in the elevator in a spaced line, all doors but the one they were facing sealed and disabled. Dan, Pat, and Taylor made up the center of the barricade, the flanks held by two men named Greene and Forbes. All five of them were equipped with submachine guns, sidearms and heavy ordnance belted to their thighs and backs. Bandoliers of ammunition covered most of their limbs, and the typical single layer of nanotube armor rest against their shirted chests.

The speaker in the inner workings of the elevator chimed once, the happy ringing note out of place in the dirty and charred elevator, before the doors pulled apart and the entire bay erupted into a firefight.

"Forbes, Greene, provide overlapping cover on my go! We're going up and over as soon as they reload!" Dan shouted over the thunderous roar of gunfire from both sides. Rounds pounded against the makeshift cover, which shuddered against each impact. The drumming ceased as the opposing force foolishly reloaded at the same time, and the three of them vaulted over cover, bringing their weapons to bear as withering cover fire raced out on either side.

The three of them landed in a rough chevron with Dan at its head, and released controlled bursts of fire into close enemy troops. In the tight quarters of the loading bay, it was hard to miss, and several targets went down as bullets punched into unarmored bodies. "Pat, Taylor, split off and we'll push through! Forbes, Greene, you're on overwatch!"

Dan thumbed the magazine release, reloading his weapon as he delivered a vicious kick to a man's chest. Not even bothering to bring the sights to his eyes, he drilled two rounds into the downed man's chest, stepping over the bloody corpse as he brought the submachine gun up. Another man spun out of cover, only to be cut down in a burst of fire by superior reflexes. To his left and right, he heard the chatter of his squad's weapons, and three well placed rounds from beyond his shoulder took a man in the chest as he slammed the butt-stock of his weapon in another one's throat. Dan's sidearm left its holster and spat rounds into the downed man's torso as his submachine gun barked into an enemy in the distance.

The sounds of the firefight dimmed in the bay as the three of them pushed through the opposition, gruesome carnage in their wake. Further ahead, a grenade exploded in a spectacular shower of gore and shrapnel, taking out an entire group. Slipping his pistol back into the polymer holster, Dan swept around the corner of an erected barricade, coming face to face with a combatant. A stiff uppercut to his solar plexus had the man hunching over, straight into an upcoming knee. Blood spurted from his nose as a boot connected with his ribs, the force of the impact sending him crashing into the ground.

"_We're all clear up here for now, send up the packages._" Pat's voice crackled over the radio, and moments later the steady beating of the two-prop V-22 Ospreys filled the air. The tubes would be loaded onto the aircraft first, the staff and finally the soldiers last. For now, though, they were finished.

* * *

The last of the tubes had been loaded, the staff crowding about them as they made micro-adjustments to operating parameters. Dr. Shaw leaned against one of the internal walls of the cargo bay of the hovering Osprey, tiredly running a dirty hand through her hair and pulling out the band that held it in a tight ponytail. The loading ramp was still folding up, the thick plate slowly rising with hydraulic hisses. A tall soldier leaning against next to her crossed his thick arms, the full combat load still rigged to his rising chest. A thin river of blood trickled from a shrapnel wound in his eyebrow. The deep brown eyes scanned the smoking wreckage that was Cornerstone as it shrank with distance.

"Was it worth it?" The gruff man spoke.

Seconds passed, as the world in front of them thinned to a line as the bay doors sealed shut with a firm click. She did not answer.

* * *

**August 11th, 2028  
****Córdoba Province, Argentina  
****0200 Hours**

"Man, who the _fuck _would ever want to live here."

Suppressed laughter rippled through the makeshift lean-to, the fabric of a thin thermal blanket stretching above the two men as rain pattered against it. As if to prove a point, one of them slapped a hand against his neck with blurred speed, silencing the buzz of the mosquito they had both heard. "That's probably the fifteenth one I've killed Shepard. This op can't get any worse."

"Sure can, Pat. You _could_ keep complaining." Shepard's mouth stretched into a silent yawn as he spoke, the warm humidity of the thick forest filling his lungs. He had to admit, though, that there was a distinct amount of truth to his words. The two of them were laying prone meters from the inside edge of a forest, the scopes on their high powered sniper rifles magnifying an outcrop of buildings surrounded by a thick solid wall six-hundred meters away.

"_So let me get this straight,_" Dan's voice whispered over the radio. Wherever he was, Shepard could hear his fingers drumming a surprisingly rhythmic beat on the polymer cheek-rest of his rifle's stock. "_These are the guys that burned Cornerstone, and they're just sitting in these completely unhidden buildings? Either they're dumber than we thought, or we're in the wrong location... Again._"

It was a fair point. Intel had had them dropping in on nearly every continent on the planet as they weeded leads out. They had long since tracked down the man that had leaked Cornerstone's location, and he had come to his sudden demise when his vehicle exploded in Malta. The police detectives assigned to the case had found shockingly little to support theories of foul play, and the death was forced to be considered an "accident" – even though the blast had been powerful enough to blow out several nearby windows. The 6th had taken it as a testament to their precision work.

Following that had been dozens of operations that had mostly culminated in little definitive intel, until the week prior. An un-networked personal terminal's disks had been goldmines of usable information, pointing them to a front company that produced plastics. From there, they had been led through a maze of contacts and favors, that had finally ended them up where they were now. They had, as was usual for long-haul objectives, been operating mostly on their own, with no contact to higher command structures of any sort, though there were assets available for use. It was the sort of warfare they waged best, unhindered by red tape and rules of engagement, though Shepard had made sure they never crossed the precarious line of morality.

"Well, if we're in the wrong location, I'm sure we'll find out soon enough." They spoke at a level that would be considered inaudible to the vast majority even at close range, but not one of them had trouble hearing another speak, even over the generally quiet radios.

"Doesn't really look like the operations base of some terrorist organization, does it?" Pat quipped from off to his side. "I mean, usually they've got like spires and poor lighting, not to mention storm clouds and such."

Shepard chuckled appreciatively as the squad engaged in lively, but quiet, banter over the channel.

"_Sure would be Pat, if this was some Disney movie. I imagine there would also be a handful of burly men with pikes._"

"Dan, what Disney movie _ever _had burly men with pikes?"

"... _You're kidding me, right?_"

"Well..."

Whatever uncomfortableness was about to ensue was quickly squashed, as a light on Shepard's wrist unit pulsed twice – Team two was in position. He flicked a button on the mount of his scope, and the glass inside was overlaid with various bits of data pertinent to making an accurate shot. The camera mounted to the lip of the scope also came online, immediately picking up on the high-wavelength infrared signals that indicated his squadmates locations, which were similarly relayed on the aperture picture. It was rather useful equipment, though he shudder to think what a single unit cost. Probably more than he made in a month, he thought somewhat sourly.

"Eyes on, team two. You're clear to begin burning." He released the comms. key, hefting the rather hefty rifle stock to his cheek and smoothly chambered one of the four-hundred-and-nineteen grain .408 caliber rounds. Peering down his scope, his eye focused on the quick flaring of the acetylene torch before it began cutting through the plating of the high wall. Several seconds passed as the torch continued burning a hole large enough for each of the four members of team two to pass through, and he continued lazily scanning the area near them through his scope.

"Team two, you've got company. Just one, doesn't look like he really knows you're there, but he's closing at a hundred meters." Shepard whispered over the radio, watching the torch suddenly sputter out as team two spotted the same target.

"_Well, don't wait for us then. If you've got a shot, take it. Shouldn't be able to hear your rounds at this range, especially not over the noise of whatever is on the other side of this wall."_

Shepard could hear it, too, the hum of power generators in the background of the radio communications. He chuckled quietly, depressing a switch on the trigger guard of his rifle before the onboard computer calculated conditions to overlay an appropriate firing solution. Surprisingly, his own calculations matched those of the computer, having already aimed the rifle near to where it suggested he shoot. The rifle kicked lightly against his shoulder, the supersonic round soft in its exit of the muzzle as the target's chest rooster-tailed in gore. "Target down." A yawn threatened to break through his communique as he cycled the bolt, the thick brass shell spinning from the ejection port. In the distance, the flame of the torch started again.

"Not enough action for you?" Pat commented from afar.

"Well, usually there's one or two explosions, a couple of close calls, and a handful of other things going wrong by now. Can't blame me." _Careful what you wish for_, his subconscious whispered as Pat shrugged noncommittally.

"_We're through, team one. Cover us to the entry point and then high tail it to your secondary._"

"Copy that, team two."

"Heads up, activity on the west-most wall."

"I see 'em, Pat. Two secondaries, six-fifty meters and closing. Wind... one-quarter value, wind speed five miles an hour bearing west." His fingers found the windage knob on the side of the scope, twisting it a full three clicks. "Fire when ready."

Barely a fraction of a second after he finished, twin shots rang out from their perch, and the two patrolling men jerked violently in the shadows before falling.

"Scan for hostiles – " The courtyard team two had just moved past was suddenly bathed in light, stadium style light fixtures glaring against the cloudy night sky. All along the perimeter, singular units were turning inward, their comparatively weak cones of light flashing about in the darkness. "Team two, report!"

"_We're into the main complex and out of sight for now. I guess they have some sort of alarm system that we didn't see._"

"Understood." With a tap of a button Shepard switched to team one's channel. "Dan, Taylor, pack it up. Meet you at the rally point."

"_Roger that Shepard, we're moving."_

"Pat, let's – "

"Already up."

The whisper came from over his shoulder, maybe two meters back if he was any good at judging distance. He shook his head, laughing to himself quietly. "Sneaky bastard." Pat smiled wordlessly in the dark, watching as Shepard collapsed the telescopic stock of his rifle and detached the barrel before securing it all in a sepia brown rifle pack that he slung over his back. With a simple nod, the two slipped out of sight and made their way to the compound.

* * *

"Two, status?"

No reply was received. Instead, a small rather dim green light winked once on his wrist display, which was currently displaying an isometric view of the compound's skeleton. He understood; Short range and low power signals were almost undetectable, and from the looks of it, team two had gone into hiding somewhere in a server room. The heat from the massive server farms would mask them from thermal optics, and means of electronic detection were useless near such amount of electromagnetic interference.

"Two should be accessing their databanks by now, let's give them a few moments to double check our intel." The whispered command was acknowledged by the three men under his command, the four of them silently spreading to cover in the shadows of the stuffy and oppressive basement. A bead of sweat rolled around the creases of his left eye, pooling before it dripped off his cheekbone and splashing against the concrete floor. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears, thudding slowly but powerfully at what his readout told him was forty-six beats per minute. Movement caught his quick eyes as Dan shifted his foot in discomfort, but apart from it the four were frozen still.

The same light blinked twice on his data feed, before the color shifted to a solid green that lasted a full two seconds; They were in the right place. "Time to burn their playhouse down." Taylor commented as the squad converged on the stairwell door. Shepard brought a gloved finger to his lips as they stacked on both sides of the door, indicating that they should stay quiet until it came to it. With a nod, his fingers wrapped around the door knob – an unexpected mechanism given how prevalent automatic doors were – and twisted smoothly, pushing the door open into an equally dark room. It was well past midnight, so the majority of nonessential personnel would be off-site, leaving only guards to deal with.

It was almost unfair.

* * *

The man fell quickly, quiet as the thick arm snaked around his throat from behind and crushed his windpipe, before it gently pushed him to the ground. Four shadows slipped against the unlit walls, coming to rest against a railed wall overlooking an atrium. One hand outstretched and pointed to a set of doors at the bottom wall, one that would lead to the server room, and another that – after he consulted his tactical map – Shepard noted would lead to a whole mess of laboratories.

"Too many to slip by in such light, Shepard." His eyes drifted over the half-dozen or so men that patrolled about the edges of the room below them, briefly looking for a gap in the pattern they could use to their advantage. If it was him alone, it would have been a fairly simple deal, but with four of them, they could hardly give them the slip well enough to data-mine the laboratory. A quick glance confirmed that the analog hole download of relevant information from the server was still in progress, with a mere ten minutes left. That gave him exactly three to get into the labs and still have enough time to search the place. With a quick directive, the men split to cover each of four side of the room before wrapping thick ropes about the railing and weaving them to rings on their combat belts. For a moment he played with the idea of dropping a flashbang before rappelling in, but ultimately decided against it – they were far too noisy. Their suppressed sidearms would have to do the trick.

"Up and over."

The men jumped as one, units on their gear slowing Shepard's descent just enough so he did not injure himself when he landed in a crouch two stories below. With a quick draw, he fired two rounds in the unprotected chest of the man nearest to him. The muted thumps contrasted starkly with the power of the rounds, and the man collapsed in a heap as his fellow guards reacted in shock. Behind him, similarly quieted sidearms popped, and more combatants keeled over as he took aim at another center mass. _Thump! Thump thump! _Three rounds brought down a combined two more, and the room was still again, but only for a moment's time. In a recessed corner, a camera betrayed their presence as the complex came to a full lock down, alarms blaring ceaselessly. Boots thudded against the floor several stories above him as his team converged on the lab doors.

"Two, gonna get hot in here real fast. Prep charges on outlying walls, I doubt we're coming through here again."

"_Just had to go and ruin everything, huh?_"

"Just for you." Shepard broke off the channel as the lab doors whooshed open, the interior unlit and empty. No lights were turned on, as they simply didn't need them – The small lights from equipment in the lab served as sufficient ambiance for their eyes to adjust to.

"Dan, Taylor, you're on guard duty. Pat, let's search this room."

The two of them fanned out, progressing down the aisles along the mass clumps of tables that supported microscopes and test vials and blood samples and strangely colored liquids. Somewhere down the line, something shifted, the quiet _thunk _of metal on metal. Both Pat and Shepard heard it, freezing where they walked and straining their senses. A shoe squeaked as something bumped lightly into something else. Shepard's eyes narrowed on a cup of fluid, the steamy tendrils folding in the air.

He raised his gun to a low-ready stance. "Come out, hands up. You tell me what's going on in here, and I'll consider not shooting you."

It was a threat loaded with bull, but only his team knew that. He noted, with a certain amount of sadistic glee, that the man's hands – and indeed his entire body – were trembling quite violently as he slowly stood from behind the desks. "Don't shoot! I just do research, I-I swear!" The man's voice shook almost as much as his hands.

"We'll see. You said you do research? What kind?" His interrogative was soft in comparison to the mans voice.

"Well... My name is Doctor Shawn Pike... I'm a-a pathologist, and virologist, I study viruses and, and diseases and how they affect the b-body," There was a certain note of pride in his voice as he blabbered. "... and we were doing work and then... and..."

"And...?"

"Well, then, then everybody started to disappear. T-they told us that they had been m-moved to other projects b-b-but... No one ever heard from t-them."

Shepard grimaced visibly. "So they were cleaning house? What were you working on?"

The man's eyes flickered to a sealed tank that stood in a corner in line with the door way, before they danced around nervously eying the ground. "We were... Doing awful stuff." His voice quieted several notches. "The test subjects never lasted longer than a week. I never did any... work, with them myself... But I knew what was going on." His eyes closed hard under tight-stitched brows, as if willing away his demons. "It's a controlled infection that targets myofibril and – "

"Spare me the details, Doctor. What does it _do_?"

Behind the door, the sound of boots thundered into the atrium, and gunfire erupted as team two engaged them. "It... It basically eats away at the body, they wanted to use it in some biological attack, but I've been trying to sabotage its dispersal all night! The effects are slow, like... like necrosis, and I've removed the spreadable contagion, but it would be _devastating _if it was used on a population center! Please, you _have_ to destroy it!"

The gravity of the situation was hardly lost upon him, but with the ensuing shootout beyond him, there was little he could do. "Doctor, I understand your concerns, however, _I don't know _if we can do as you say."

"No, no no no no. No! Burn it down, the virus cannot live in extreme conditions!" The doctor was panicking now, spittle flying from his lips as he began muttering about sealants and containment. If fire could kill it though...

"Would a grenade do the trick?"

He was disappointed, but not exactly surprised when he saw the man shake his head fervently – the grenades were mostly concussive force, after all, and not designed to put out much heat. "At most, it would serve as a dispersal."

He keyed his long range communications.

"Grizzly one-two, do you copy?"

"_Grizzly one-two on station. Verify._" A grenade detonated outside of the door, the thick aluminum bending inward at the force.

"Grizzly one-two, verification echo-zulu-one-niner-alpha-wilson. Roll out strike package _india_, load Spooky Thirty-Two with incendiary and high explosive rounds and make ready for tasking! How copy?"

"_... Grizzly one-two confirming strike package india, PGM-38/U twenty-five mike mike HEI loaded. On station in two minutes. Holding for your mark."_

Just then, another detonation rocked the door well off its supports, leaving a gouged framed where it once stood. Shepard immediately spun to face the entry way, grabbing the doctor's shoulder and pushing him back below cover as he fired his submachine gun at breaching enemy; for whatever work he had done, it was not his job to indict him.

"_Shepard, we need to exfil now! Set charges on the wall, we'll meet you outside and assist if necessary!"_

Team two's warning reminded him that their job there was done and he keyed his team's channel as he smoothed a ring of detcord against the wall. "Squad on me, we're blowing through and getting the hell out of here. Grizzly one-two will take care of the rest." Four black-uniformed guards were piled at the entrance, taken down by well placed defensive fire from Dan and Taylor as they crouched behind the research tables. The detcord blasted a hole clean through the wall, the pale orange of a rising sun casting the room in a fiery glow. Team two filtered in, they themselves pushing the doctor out the gaping hole under Shepard's order, firing all the way. The barrage of their submachine guns pockmarking a duo of guards who tried to clear the room, their bodies riddled with excess shots.

They had, however, accomplished their task. A single concussive grenade bounced off the wall, rolling behind the tank of the experimental virus. All at once, everything the doctor said rushed back to him, the necrotic nature, tissue degeneration, and more. It was all he could do to activate a tracking beacon and toss it on the floor before the grenade went off, throwing lab equipment and perforating the canister with a thousand bits of shrapnel. The gas inside expanded outward like a smoke grenade, the fine gaseous mist coating the entire room and its inhabitants.

"Get your asses out _now!_" He roared over the din of the fight, as his own submachine gun sprayed bursts of covering fire. This wasn't how it was supposed to go, nothing in all his training had prepared him for such a lame out. The least he could do was try his best to make sure his squad survived.

"_Grizzly one-two, locking onto your beacon, preparing to fire twenty-five mike mike HEI on target. Waiting for your mark."_

Shepard took one last look around the room as he blindly fired his last magazine into the entryway where even more guards were preparing to breach, and he ducked out of their exfil point and broke into a sprint with his team before keying his communications equipment. The broadcast would reach all the way back to Virginia, where the 'new Cornerstone' had been erected.

"6th Task Force here. Prepare to receive wounded." He swallowed hard. "Caution: Extreme pathological detriment likely... Do what you have to do." Switching channels, he tabbed the radio again. "Grizzly one-two, mark. Burn it down."

* * *

**August 12th, 2028  
****On the outskirts of Appalachia, Virginia  
****1800 Hours  
****'New Cornerstone'**

When Shepard's transmission had been received, emergency personnel had been activated, waking the staff as they grumbled about 'ungodly hours' and morning coffee. Further complaints were mustered when the directive went out to don full cleanroom suits, mostly about the full seal helmet and gas mask they were to wear. None of them were complaining when they received the 6th Task Force.

Scans showed signs of significant tissue degradation underneath the mottled and blotchy skin of the infected men. Doctor Shaw had been on site from the very start, conversing quickly with Doctor Shawn Pike, whom she regarded with obvious hostility on all accounts – It was _his _work destroying _hers_. Luckily for him, they had had less than a few minutes of interaction, mostly calls placed to gather information on the pathogen. For his part, he had been extremely helpful when asked, providing all information requested and more, though remorseful when he told her it was designed to be more or less bulletproof.

She had worked feverishly for hours on the patient whom had received the worst, being told that he had been closest to the release site. "John Shepard... You stubborn _son of a bitch_." Her muttering reached his barely conscious mind, which was currently being overwhelmed by the cocktail of drugs in the intravenous bag. The infection had originally taken on the appearance of common fibrinoid necrosis, but acted more like a heat-seeking missile aimed at vital organs rather than just immune complexes. Only with extremely attentive care had the effects been held at bay, and even then it was exhaustive and hardly practical for her to keep up her work around the clock.

Earlier, Dr. Pike had indicated that freezing may be a possible solution, but it was one she was most reluctant to take. Freezing almost guaranteed irreversible tissue loss, and they couldn't very well bring a torch to the strains, much as she'd like to.

They had confirmed that the spreadable contagion had been exterminated or otherwise removed from the tank, so at the very least it wasn't spreadable between herself and her patient. "John... John, what in the hell am I going to do with you." It was hardly a question that she whispered as she stood near the paled man on the gurney. There wasn't much that she _could _do.

"_S-s... squad?"_

Shepard's hushed question almost made her jump in fright, the gritty undertones of his voice echoing in her ears. She shook her head, both amused and irritated at the mans selflessness. "They're alive, Shepard."

"_... Mission?"_

She smirked again. His utter lack of self-concern would someday prove to be his downfall, she knew, but similarly she knew it wouldn't end this way. It _couldn't _end this way, and she would make _damned _sure it wouldn't.

"A success. But I've got a new one for you, John." She leaned in somewhat closer, whispering at him a mere foot away from his face as his eyes slowly settled on hers. "And, I can help you with this one."

"_Ob... objective?"_

"Stay. Alive." Her words were quiet, strained, somewhat hopeful if not utterly determined. She would help him, or die trying.

* * *

(Another foolish note. I wanted to make it clear that when I picture this story's Shepard, I see the canon face model. That being said, I wasn't entirely happy with this chapter either. Ah well.)


	6. Chapter VII: Tombs of the Living

**US Office of Special Warfare  
****Priority Transmission 04567F-01  
****Restrictive:**file access restriction 3c  
**From:**Dr. Erin Cassandra Shaw M.D., Ph.D.  
**To:**Admiral Jeffery Gordon, _USS Sierra  
_**Subject**:PreliminaryProject [RESTRICTED] Status Report  
**Timestamp:**11-25-2028 1600 Local Time

_Admiral Gordon,_

_I've compiled the documentation of _[RESTRICTED] _as you requested. Frankly, the results are... Disappointing. Typical immuno-suppressants, anti-inflammatory drugs, anti-biotics, ROS therapy, etcetera have effectively neutralized aftereffects of the agent, but patients require near constant monitoring and treatment to keep it at bay. If we were to take them off these, I predict the agent would take hold and effectively rot the patient from the inside out in a timespan of roughly twenty to twenty four hours on those with limited exposure (see attached reports). Limited combat operations are possible as long as those listed have access to required fluids, and it is entirely possible and feasible to continue combat operations with a fraction of the Task Force. Dr. Shawn Pike, as much as I hate having him around, has been ultimately useful in recommending treatment plans. Perhaps misguided, but the man is quite brilliant. He has recommended partial stabilizing cryogenic treatment for off-duty personnel that sustained least exposure, and permanent stabilizing treatment for those unfortunate souls that were more heavily exposed. I am... hesitant to go through with such procedures, though I recognize it to be the best option for their continued survival. If you wish to follow through with these procedures, I will attempt to formulate a report for you._

_Dr. Erin Shaw_

[_attached file: _Medical Dossiers]

_Master Sergeant John Shepard:_

_Subject-011 endured extreme exposure to Agent due to proximity of holding tank, ruptured by concussive blast. Body has shown extreme resilience bolstered in no small part by treatment and enhancive procedures. Heartbeat and brainwave activity have shown extreme increase during infection. Currently undergoing the most extensive treatment of the group. Body is free of necrotic tissue and related damage in vital organs and skeletal structure. Incongruous with predicted outcomes given related variables. Subject shows best signs of consciousness and retained capabilities amongst closest exposures, both mental and motor-functional.  
__011 Operational Capacity: Minimal/RED_

_Staff Sergeant Dan Moore:_

_Subject-013 endured lesser exposure than Subject-011, but due to general proximity of the contained Agent, is in similar incapacitated state as Subject-011. No signs of necrotic tissue or damage. Brain function is minimal, suggesting deep comatose state though heartbeat and immune response are significantly elevated, despite immuno-suppressant treatment.  
__013 Operational Capacity: Minimal/RED_

_Specialist Patrick Ward:_

_Subject-017 is in similar status as Subject-011 due to near-equal proximity to contained Agent. Subject-017 shows least elevated heartbeat and vital signs, though if such status can be considered beneficiary or not remains to be seen.  
__017 Operational Capacity: Minimal/RED_

_Specialist Frank Taylor:_

_Subject-002 in similar status as Subject-013. Undergoing preventative treatments as necessary.  
__002 Operational Capacity: Minimal/YELLOW_

_Master Sergeant Eric Greene:  
_

_Subject-008 was relatively unexposed compared to others, as Subjects- 008, 014, 016, 003 were outside the area of exposure when contamination occurred. Subject-008 is fully conscious, though remaining under extreme supervision as immune response appears to rejecting the Agent. Appears to have potentially natural genetic-based resistance to Agent. Predicted to have complete or near-complete recovery.  
__008 Operational Capacity: Capable/YELLOW_

_Specialist Andrew Forbes:_

_Subject-005 is the least exposed of the group, as 005 remained outside of the complex during extraction as part of the rear guard team. Suffered exposure only during extraction of Subjects- 008, 016. Resultant infection is minor at worst.  
__005 Operational Capacity: Operational/GREEN_

_Specialist Ryan Ferguson:_

_Subject-006 suffered similar exposure to that of Subject-005 as part of rear guard during extraction.  
__006 Operational Capacity: Operational/GREEN_

_Staff Sergeant Paul McCarthy:_

_Subject-010 exposed at minimal levels to Agent. Stable and rehabilitating.  
__010 Operational Capacity: Operational/GREEN_

_Staff Sergeant Jonathon Ross:_

_Subject-018 exposed at minimal levels to Agent. Stable and rehabilitating.  
__018 Operational Capacity: Operational/GREEN_

_P.S. The men have taken to calling themselves the 'Sickly 6th'. Can we get that banned?_

**US Office of Special Warfare  
****Priority Transmission 04567F-02  
****Restrictive:**file access restriction 3c  
**From:**Admiral Jeffery Gordon, _USS Sierra  
_**To:**Dr. Erin Cassandra Shaw M.D., Ph.D.  
**Subject**:re:Project [RESTRICTED] Status Report  
**Timestamp**:11-29-2028 2000 Local Time

_Dr. Shaw,_

_Your latest update is... concerning, to say the least. As you well know, the 6th Task Force was the last group to undergo the enhancements of _[RESTRICTED]_. It would be a grave blow to our research divisions across the board if they were to fail after such a short combat service, regardless of their extreme effectiveness. That being said, it does not do us much good to have them hooked to medical equipment for their entire service. Despite your well-placed inclination to avoid bio-static treatment, I think we both know what little hope they have otherwise. I cannot keep pouring such significant funds into keeping them alive _and _keeping your research afloat without results coming in. I've received less-than-subtle hints by our detractors at the Admiralty Board meeting that we should not expect to receive such budgetary discretion past this fiscal year. That being said, I have arranged for the delivery of nine special-fitted semi-permanent/permanent cryogenic units to be delivered to your facilities._

_I believe you promised to keep them alive, doctor. Don't go back on your word. Contact me when it is done._

_Admiral Jeffery Gordon_

_P.S. I'd like to see that outline. Have it sent to my secretary, please._

* * *

**December 1****st****, 2028  
****On the outskirts of Appalachia, Virginia  
****1800 Hours  
****'New Cornerstone'**

Doctor Shaw knew her job was not meant to be easy; groundbreaking research never was. It wasn't like it was in the film industry, with clean data and a clear conscience. Rather, it was bloody and difficult and simply packed with morally-gray decisions. But still, a large part of her still clung to her younger self's naïve idealism, which made her current situation all the less palatable. In front of her stood nine sleek yet deceptively huge refitted cryogenic pods. They lightly reminded her of tanning booths that had been propped up, and then fitted with an almost excessive amount of biometric equipment. The matte gray control boxes welded to the flat bulk were all connected with a network of tubes, of whose purpose she had yet to determine. The top edges of the pod's sidewall was split with the seam of aluminum-framed polycarbonate glass, the material a deep opaque purple. Sheets of similar – though much thinner – glass with a noticeable tint were bolted to stands, their displays without power and lifeless. It was beyond bleeding edge, she knew that much without even reading the manual – If there even was one.

"Aha, I see the new equipment came in, yes?" Erin's brow furrowed as she closed her eyes. Having the very man that invented her 'children's killer in the same room as her was bad enough. It was nothing, however, compared to when Admiral Gordon had informed her that he would helping her cure his menace.

"You're here to advise, doctor, not make small talk." The venom hinged upon the his title made clear she thought less of him than she did a common murderer. In her opinion, the title was an indication of honorable service, not simply massive intellect. "And since that is all I'm told I have to put up with you for, you will kindly advise me as to where the power input is." It was hard to maintain a straight face when she was basically asking him to plug it in for her, but somehow she managed.

To be fair, she thought, he probably didn't deserve half the crap she gave him. While he was responsible for the debilitating infection, he had tried to make it unusable in its final stage. Perhaps she would take that into consideration.

"Er, yes, of course doctor. The transformers should be on the back." Still, it gave her a modicum of satisfaction to see him squirm, even has they moved around to the back of the units. True to his word, the relays were on the back, though the massive gold plated sockets clearly would not accept a typical extension cord.

"I assume you have some means of coupling our power sources?"

"Most of the uh, the equipment should be in a box somewhere, uh, probably downstairs, I'll go and look." On a plus note, if the speed at which he was currently moving was any indication, he would be worth a bet in a foot race.

"That won't be necessary. I've taken the liberty of having them brought up." She replied dully. The equally gray crates were stacked neatly in a corner of the bay they were currently in. Though, bay was hardly a fitting term – It was more like an aircraft hangar. The curved roof rose an impressive fifteen or so meters into the air above the fifty-by-fifty meter expanse that was their work station. Every few steps were thick recessed power connections, hidden beneath brushed aluminum trap doors.

"In the effort of preserving life, like any good doctor does, I believe it would be prudent to begin testing as soon as possible." She paused, a somewhat malicious smile tugging at her thin lips. She could play the frail old doctor facade when needed. "I trust you'll have no problem moving them and configuring the power relays? Good." And with that, she spun on her heel to retreat to a row of desks on one side of the bay. As she approached them, she took no small amount of satisfaction in hearing the weak sigh that emanated from the man, also noting the mote of light that hovered over her tablet that indicated an inbox update. Unfortunately for her ego, it was merely some minor update on a transfusion taking place, and she puffed a bit before typing out a message of her own.

**US Office of Special Warfare  
****Priority Transmission 04567F-03  
****Restrictive:**file access restriction 3c  
**From:**Dr. Erin Cassandra Shaw M.D., Ph.D.  
**To:**Admiral Jeffery Gordon, _USS Sierra  
_**Subject**:re: Project [RESTRICTED] Status Report  
**Timestamp:**12-01-2028 1820 Local Time

_Admiral Gordon,_

_We took delivery of the cryogenic units today – Where in the hell did you get access to these? I was expecting the regular things we get, not these. Nevermind, I'm not sure I want to know. I was hesitant, I still am, but with work and great deal of luck we may be able to pull it off. I have some concerns about recovery, however, if you'd like to hear them._

_Dr. Shaw_

_P.S. 'Doctor' Pike is probably best left as a lab-hand. He seems more than adept at moving these units around._

"Doctor? The coupling is done." Shawn's voice cut over her musings, timid as he was. He was hovering near one of the glass panels, waiting in invitation. Her brow rose sharply.

"Well? Do you know how to turn it on?"

"O-of course, I just thought that... Nevermind." His stammered response soothed her vicious streak, and though she _was _very eager to begin, she had no intention of looking like a fool in front of him, considering she had no clue where one might find the power button on such a machine.

Shawn, however, did not seem to have any trouble with this, as he briefly disappeared behind the massive tube. Audible mutters arose from his general direction, and she smirked cruelly until the unit powered on as she moved in front of it. The wide panel flashed momentarily, before dozens of virtual dials and sliders and other adjustments blipped on its glossy surface. Her eyes flickered across the panel momentarily, before she tapped one small red circle in the corner labeled simply _Unseal_. Immediately her brow furrowed, as one glaring problem surfaced that would drive her compulsive self haywire: her fingers _smudged the glass_.

Whatever drastic measures she was about to take were put on hold, though, as the opaque glass shifted and pressure equalized with a violent sibilation. Servos on the uppermost edge rotated the heavy glass pane on a top-mounted hinge; The hatch came to a halt when it was nearly parallel with the floor, hovering on the thick joint. Whether it worked as well as she hoped or not, such mechanical power was rather impressive.

The inside was lined with thick ribbed gel pads, buffering an occupant from the cold of the brushed aluminum of the hull. Columns of dozens of ports near the edge of the of the 'bed' housed recessed injectors and intravenous needles. At the bottom and top were grilled intakes and exhausts for air circulation. Peering her head into the vessel, she could see that the glass was nearly perfectly transparent when looking from the inside out – she smirked as she thought of the frustration lascivious nurses would have with that feature. Her reverie was interrupted by Shawn coming into visible range, hands behind his back as he watched her review. Lazing about already? She would see about that.

"Don't give me that look. _You _still have several more of these to configure."

She shook her head as she returned to her tablet, lips pulled in a thin smile. She truly was a villain.

**US Office of Special Warfare  
****Priority Transmission 04567F-04  
****Restrictive:**file access restriction 3c  
**From:**Admiral Jeffery Gordon, _USS Sierra  
_**To:**Dr. Erin Cassandra Shaw M.D., Ph.D.  
**Subject**:re:Project [RESTRICTED] Status Report  
**Timestamp**:12-01-2028 1830 Local Time

_Dr. Shaw,_

_I received your outline. I'm... concerned about the time line. You didn't include any indication as to a recovery time. Please contact me immediately regarding this. Further, certain... Precautions, will have to be taken into account. I trust you will prepare the men accordingly. _

_Admiral Gordon_

Nay, she was a monster.

* * *

**December 1****st****, 2028  
****On the outskirts of Appalachia, Virginia  
****2000 Hours  
****'New Cornerstone'**

The sound of assisted breathing was not exactly something Shepard was familiar with. He awoke, so slowly as he had been in recent months, to hear what sounded distinctly like someone breathing over his shoulder, and in a moment of attempted flailing – which was in reality little more than minor shifting – his fingers wrapped around the elastic band of the oxygen mask. For a moment, he was tempted to at least try to rip it off, for a purpose he was not entirely sure about, but stopped when he realized the sounds coincided with his own respiration. It sounded so similar to a scuba tank, the harsh and sudden rush of inhalation.

Luckily he did not have long to his thoughts, dim as they were. The ever-matronly face of Dr. Shaw soon hovered over his own, the sadness in her eyes disparate with the small smile warranted by his feeble action. She spoke quietly, as she always did in recent months.

"Hi there, John."

The most he could do was shift his gaze to match her own, hoping they would convey his pleasure in seeing her. Instead, he found only that she looked away quickly, clearing her throat as she bored holes in a chart. He would not know how difficult it would be for her to have seen that the steel in his eyes had drifted away.

"I've got... news." The warmly voice chipped as her eyes hesitantly scanned his features. "Admiral Gordon appropriated some equipment for you. We're going to get you through this." The concern was still visible on his brow. "All of you." It eased, though he didn't understand. This was good news, wasn't it? Why was she so distraught?

It never crossed his weakened mind that she may be holding out on him. "All I need is..." Her eyes shut tightly, and her lips moved wordlessly. "All I need is a thumbprint. Will you do that for me?" She spoke as though a concerned parent would to their unsure child.

A thumbprint? Yes, of course he would. Why wouldn't he? His mind was blanketed by the soft warmth of fever-beholden sedatives. There was no reason not to, and the small personal digital assistant beeped as it read in and verified his thumbprint, before his consciousness was lost to the gentle whispers of sleep.

Dr. Shaw rose unsteadily from the stool beside John, guilt creasing the corners of her eyes. She suddenly looked a thousand years older, stricken by the deed she had coerced him into. As she came to the door, she came a stop, slowly turning to look back into the now-unlit care unit. He was sleeping, pained at best. John Shepard was a man today, a son to someone, a lover to another, an exemplary marine of the Fighting Fifth, and a friend to the many he had met over the course of his short lifespan.

Tomorrow, he would cease to exist; in every database, in every search forum, in every military record and every familial and collegiate record. Tomorrow, Master Sergeant John Shepard, recipient of a hundred untold honors, would disappear into thin air with the rest of the 6th Task Force. His own thumbprint had authorized it, after all.

* * *

**December 4****th****, 2****028  
****On the outskirts of Appalachia, Virginia  
****1400 Hours  
****'New Cornerstone'**

There was no funeral; they weren't dead, not really. There was no flying of flags or sounding of horns. There was instead, the solemn silence as staff in clean-suits gently tugged the intravenous drips and monitoring equipment from the arms and chests and heads of the nine remaining men of the 6th. The squeal of medical alarms as they read the flat-line of empty air went unheeded. Now-excess wiring and tubing lay dormant over the creased bedsheets, like the corpses of snakes as they lifted the men from their prisons of the past months. It was no small feat in itself, requiring no less than one person per bared limb. The scars of their bodies were magnified in the overhead light, the only thing on their body besides their dog tags and undergarments.

They were set, one by one, in the upright and unsealed capsules – caskets, she thought – the staff guiding their limbs into the open jaws of the aluminum clamps. A few muttered in their sedated rest, heads rolling about as if their mind was trying to wake them before it was too late. None did. Status lights on the control displays flashed to life, a solid, unwavering green over the_ Seal _button. Dr. Erin Shaw's finger hovered over the master control, networked to every single pod. It hovered still, as she took one last look into the closest pod – John, of course. He was always there, it seemed.

Her finger landed on the display: the clamps over their bodies sealed fluidly, and at once the hatches began their descent, slowly cropping her view of the resting man. No matter, he looked peaceful now; his ever-concerned brow was for once relaxed, his forehead smooth and his lips not drawn in a strained smile. Yes, she could live with that.

The deep purple opaqueness of the glass sealed over him with the soft sneeze of pneumatic pressure, and mechanical latches spun into place.

"Goodbye, John."

* * *

_(This was intended to be a particularly short chapter. I wanted to get the 'bridge' out of the way, and though I usually enjoy doing ten-thousand plus word chapters, doing so for this would be... Silly. Ah well.)_


	7. Chapter VIII: Age of Enlightenment

**April 21****st****, 2148  
****Promethei Planum Outpost, Mars  
****06:30 Hours Local Time**

The Promethei Planum outpost was, in all aspects and forms, _boring_. A remote collection of dirty prefabs and scattered satellite uplinks, it looked more like a shanty town than it ever would a respectable and advanced research outpost; part of that was due to it being widely considered as a dead-end.

Second Lieutenant Mateus Silva pawed at his fresh trimmed hair, setting his steaming mug of acidic coffee down and yawning in his inconceivably uncomfortable swivel chair. The monitors wrapping a full ninety degrees stirred to life as it detected his movement, chirping out the morning greeting in typical computerized fashion. He had tinkered endlessly with the software responsible for its voice output, but, much to his dismay, had been completely unable to reconfigure it to sound more feminine and welcoming.

"_Please enter password._" The computer prompted. It was hardly a morning voice, he thought as he tapped on the keyboard, and it would be much more pleasant with a bit of humanity in it.

His hand rose to his mouth, stifling a rearing yawn as he blinked weariness from his eyes. Humanity had been operating in relatively close space for more than half a century, establishing satellites and space-coasting research facilities. He had had the opportunity to serve on tough warships and space-faring cruisers intent on stopping high-space piracy, but had instead chosen to live out his days on a dingy monitoring outpost built on top of an enormous iceberg. It was boring – but it was safe, and above all else Mateus preferred to be safe. He preferred the constant drone and comfort that the uneventful outpost had brought him, sipping his 'morning joe' and doing _absolutely nothing_.

… Which is exactly how he came to be spewing that same 'morning joe' all over his workspace.

"_Please review disruption log, dated April 20__th__, 2148, 22:52 hours local time. Thank you for your cooperation._"

Spatial energy readings were off the charts, hell, energy in ranges that didn't have a _name _were off the charts. Something big was happening in the subterranea below the Deseado Crater, he postulated as his eyes widened, an unpleasant feeling of fear gripping his stomach. Never in forty years of operations had this outpost detected so much as a single anomaly, and – he furiously tapped in commands to bring up current situation reports – in the span of seven hours enough energy was coagulating at the crater to power a city for a number of months.

He checked the duty roster: Just him, and a handful of college students on research assignments. He felt bad for a moment – that was a piteously bland assignment – before he once again returned to disorderly panic. A moment passed, before a vestige of hope surfaced; there was a chance his higher up had simply ignored the data reports from his outpost, and with any amount of luck –

"_Incoming transmission: Patching you in._"

It was all he could do to _not _shut down the computer before it processed the call. The weathered and wrinkled face of his commanding officer shimmered in front of him on the monitors.

"_Good, you're up, and I see you've read the anomalous reports._"

How _did _he know that? He nodded glumly.

"_Then I hardly need to say how unusual the circumstances are. I want your team on that crater as soon as possible, find out what is going on over there. And, lieutenant, that includes you._"

The screens snapped to gray as Mateus' fingers shivered above his keyboard. "Dammit all..." He muttered as he reached for the button that would start a station-wide transmission, trying to summon a courage that he did not feel he had. Why did it have to be when _he _was on duty?

"This is Mateus Silva," He paused, hearing his voice echo down the hallways behind him. "An irregularity has formed over the Deseato Crater..."

* * *

**April 21****st****, 2148  
****Deseado Crater, Mars  
****14:30 Hours Local Time**

"_Look, all I'm saying is we've been out here a dozen times before. I don't know what they're expecting to find._"

"_You've made that abundantly clear, Ricky. It's not like you had anything better to do anyhow._"

"_Still, beats being stuck in these suits to explore a crater we've explored a thousand times before._"

Mateus Silva rested his head against his open palm as he tapped in corrections to the prospecting rover's guidance systems. At best, his 'crew' was rowdy, at worst, somewhat mutinous, and some had quickly tired of the colonial world. Behind him, in the cramped cargo bay on jury-rigged metal benches, bickered a five man team made up mostly of junior collegiate students in research programs – The Promethei Planum Outpost team. Each of them, including himself, was clad in a 'soft suit', a nearly skintight suit of electrospun fibers embossed with pressure veins and power conduits. Thick polymer plates were latched onto hard points such as the elbows, knees and any place that could be scraped and breached. They had all donned the close-fitting polymer hard-helmets, the rectangular polarized shields wrapping around the majority of their face. Happily, he had noted, they did a good job at hiding his anxiety.

Whatever purpose the suits were intended to serve, they _were _extremely uncomfortable, something they brought up more often than not. "_Seriously, this is like the fourth time I've had to pull this thing out of my – _"

"_That's enough, Ricky. We're coming up on the ridge of the Deseado Crater. Start mission logs:_" He swallowed, the bobbing Adam's apple hidden besides the veil of the suit. "_Entry six, fourteen-thirty local time." _Mateus drew his hand to the angled cylinders integrated to the side of his helmet, tapping a key and hearing the video recorder click into operation as he wound down the rover's speed with a pull of the brakes. The electric motors whined down to inactivity as they came to the edge of the deep crater.

"_Alright team, let's go. As of this morning, the Promethei Planum station began reporting a phenomena they described as a shift in magnetic fields. Of course, we have no clue what's going on, so here we are." _Mateus' voice echoed in their ears from radio feeds embedded in each helmet as they piled out of the rover's hold and onto the red dusty surface. His voice sounded foreign even to himself, as it often did when he was on edge.

Mars was a dreary planet at best; red orange rock all the way to the horizon, which merged with the pale orange sky. One could quickly become sick of the planet, just as he had. He much preferred the view from the relative safety of his office.

"_Are we actually expecting to find anything?_"

"_Not particularly. Though, they seemed pretty determined to find something out here, maybe we finally will._" Mateus spoke reluctantly, equally bored with the fruitless explorations of the planet, but similarly equally comfortable with the safety that bought him

"_So... No?_"

"_Most likely not. Bring the gear anyhow._" He shifted one the packs over his own shoulder, the duffel bag lightly glancing off his respirator unit in the low gravity of the planet before he set off up the raised rim of the deep crater. Behind the silver reflection of his mask, he yawned audibly, though shakily, as he shuffled along. From somewhere behind him he heard the beep of some device, and the electronic signal readings spiked as an invisible wave passed over him.

"_Yeah, yeah... You know, I think my surface scanner is broken. It seems to think there's a great hole... up... ahead..."_

Jeffrey Po, one of the students in his team, stated the obvious: "_This... This wasn't here a week ago._" Near to the epicenter of the crater, in a previously solid plain of rock, a gaping maw had opened, the stone jagged at the edges. Particulate spun slowly above the tunnel, held by some invisible strings.

"_Is that..._" Mateus felt his heart beating in this throat. "_Is that stone... Floating?_" They were; chunks of stone bobbing in the air as if on a wave-ridden ocean. As they cautiously approached, he desperately tapped the auto-focus key on the mission camera, hoping beyond hope that it was, for once, functioning normally. The gentle breeze that picked up dust around them ceased completely as he took another hesitant step forward, fingertips reaching to graze the hovering stone.

"_What the _hell _is going on here, professor? Last I checked rocks don't just do... do that!_" The panic edging into Rick's voice was high and clear, his apparent fear of the unknown rearing its head.

Mateus, however, did not hear them. Though every part of his conscious being screamed out against it and his lips moved wordlessly, struggling to formulate a sentence, some small nook of his brain took hold as the rock bobbed under his touch. There was no resistance as it slid through the air, to his finger tips or to the atmosphere. "_I... Have no idea. But I intend to find out._" Some long-hidden ounce of strength had found its way into his voice, into his very body, and with that, he removed the duffel bag from his shoulder, only to find it too floated like the rock. He marveled at the sight, drifting like it was in zero gravity before he retrieved a spool of thick nylon rope, several pitons, and a small metal hammer from it.

Stammered protests fell on deaf ears as he tapped the pitons into the hard packed dirt, their external microphones dampening the sharp metallic pings the spike drove deeper. The majority of his team stood around still arguing their next moves as he looped the climbing rope about the piton, while the others desperately keyed communication channels.

"_Uhh... Our long range connection is... Well, it's not working._"

"_And I bet the reason it's not working is because of whatever is causing this." _His finger spun in the air, gesticulating at the rocks. A new confidence was seeping into his veins, as thoughts of fantastic discovery and pioneering entered his thoughts, blaring past obstacles of self-doubt and worry. Perhaps whatever they found would even get him off this rock. "_I'm going down, and I'd appreciate company._"

Some of the others indubiously gaped at him from behind their masks, mouths silently opening and closing like goldfish. Others were more vocal, but were cut off as Mateus stepped out over the hole and disappeared into its depths. They waited on pins at the edge as several minutes passed, the wind fluctuating as if buffered by some invisible force. The rope had tugged once, twice, and then fell limp as Mateus had been swallowed by the inky blackness of the subterranean pit.

"_... Maybe the rope was too short – "_

The deafening crackle of an overpowering signal burst into their helmets. "G_et down here, now! Jesus, bring everything!_"

* * *

The... _thing _in front of him was massive, bigger than any ship he'd seen in his forty years on Mars. Exactly _how _it had defied all subterranean scans was beyond him. Dropping down the rope had landed him in an enormous cave, stretching further than his eyesight could really help him. It expanded even further than his powerful flash light could illuminate, and that was saying something.

For several moments after landing, he had assumed he was standing in just some hollow. It was only when he kicked some of the dirt he stood upon that he realized it was cold metal below him, coated in a layer of dust so thick it genuinely appeared to be the forces of nature at work. There was, however, _nothing _natural about what he had seen next: a starship that stretched several hundreds of meters, dark and brooding red plates shielding elliptical thruster ports on the angled rear of the hold. The back end reminded him of the cabin of an old seafaring ship, minus all the glass, in that it was slanted and boxy, descending into a long curved deck. Navigational thrusters were built onto arms in the mid-carriage of the fuselage, the 'wings' curving down before leveling into a flat stretch. It reminded him rather significantly of a tailless scorpion.

His heart was beating rapidly, caught in his throat as he tried to speak, instead only croaking futilely. Beyond it, a half dozen or more other ships of smaller stature rested on thick landing skids. Even when the rest of his team landed behind him, their thick boots echoing off the plating, he still had not found his voice, instead wandering awestruck towards the scorpion shaped ship. Giant symbols were inscribed on the forward hull of the vessel, a mass of squiggly lines and dots, their meanings indeterminate. Outstretched fingers of the group found contact with the smooth metal, broken only by design crevasses, as they found themselves next to the ship.

"_Ricky... Do we have communications yet?_" He scarcely dared to breathe, as if his voice would shatter the vision in front of him.

"_Uh... er... no, no we don't... Lieutenant, what _is _this?_" The resulting silence left little doubt in their minds: whatever it was, it was not of this world. Behind him, the pattering of boots betrayed the younger students' excitement, as they swept mission recorders and scanners over the ship's hull. One of them noted that the energy anomaly seemed to originate in its aft, but it would be several minutes till one of them spoke over the inter-unit channel.

"_Hey, I think... I think I found a.. a thing._"

"_Yeah, I think we all found a few things._"

"_No, I mean like a door._ _Help me up... _"

* * *

"_I feel like we're tomb raiders or something._"

"_Relax, Tim. It's just an enormous alien ship that has been buried underground for untold __millennia, there's nothing creepy about it at all._" Maetus snorted loudly, irritated with those making light of the situation but also thankful for its somewhat alleviating value. To say things were tense as they stalked along the wide and pitched black corridors was the understatement of a billion years in the making, he thought. Their flashlights weren't floodlights, they were narrow-focus lights – Exceptionally bright, but lacking in the ability to truly illuminate a room, and so they moved as one, their lights cutting swaths in the dust. Shadows loomed and tweaked as the lights were cast upon the alien bulkheads, the exotic edges withholding no small amount of comfort.

He cleared his head of the feeling of impending doom – These things were _ancient_, there couldn't possibly be life on board – before speaking. "_Have you tried contacting the station yet?_"

"_It's patchy at best._"

"_Keep trying it, who knows when it'll come back._" He spoke quietly, the edginess he felt particularly clear in a shaky voice. Questions were racing through his mind: _What if we get lost? What if we never contact the station again? What if we're trapped in here? Is someone watching us? What if we – Oh heavens._

They had stepped into a massive dome of a room, surrounded in a full circle by a perforated gantry and headed with an enormous computer layout of some sort. The only light came from small, thick glass windows on the fringes of the walkway, dim light seeping through to illuminate dust specks as they drifted. In the center, on a wide cylindrical foundation, rested a massive sphere as the center of attention for dozens of wall-mounted pylons. Its surface was a conglomeration of bulging rectangles, a gridwork of ribs and recesses, some of which were cast in the unnatural and pulsating glow of an energy long since maintained.

His hands tentatively floated over the surfaces of what looked like a control panel, and even that alone was exotic. It had came to life as he stepped near it, dozens of symbols and charts and flowing data projected into the air in semi-solid holograms of differing colors. The same mass of signage composed of foreign letters marked several dozen keys – an interface, he presumed – and in the center was a large yellow circle, its diameter an almost perfect match for the size of his hand. Who knew what it would do? Who knows how long it had sat in waiting, biding its time till some foolhardy man blindly tapped these 'buttons'?

_If it was going to be just any foolhardy man, it might as well be me, _he mused for a moment, before his gloved hand passed through the circle.

Almost immediately, and much to the dismay of those few standing behind him, the room whirred with energy, the sound cascading over them like rushing waves. The floor beneath them vibrated, humming with untold life as the radios in their helmets crackled and buzzed with static. Rushing waves turned to gale force winds, but most mind-boggling was the electric show in front of them, as bolts of furious and white-hot energy bridged the gap between the pylons and the center sphere, each salvo a hundred times the power of a lightning bolt. An ephemeral azure glow wreathed it, winking in and out of existence as its core built up the power that Mateus and his team were helpless to watch. Never once did it occur to them that the light show may be dangerous, and they stood before it like reverent followers as the sphere burst with a hellish orb of blue and white fire, crackling still like static electricity as it pulsed, restrained by some limiting factor.

Lights winked into existence, the clean white glow bathing what few shadows were left in the room in their comparatively diminutive light. The orb of energy provided most any light needed, either way.

In his ear, Mateus' communications rippled into sound.

"_Research team, Lieutenant Silva, does _anyone _read me?! Energy readings are off the charts above the Deseado Crater, what in God's name is going on!?_"

It was all he could to not break down into babbling incoherency as he replied. "_Base, this is Mateus Silva... You're not going to believe what we found... I'm not sure I do either._"

* * *

**September 1st 2157  
****Attican Traverse  
****18:34 Hours Earth Time**

The derelict discovered on Mars had had innumerable effects on humanity as a whole. Several libraries' worth of information was discovered on the data disks contained on board the ship, and while politicians had mainly bickered over who _owned _it, most of humanity – at least those in the appropriate fields of study – was content to simply study and reproduce it. Such reproduction had led to an enormous jump in technology, enabling human advancement out to the far reaches of Pluto, where data obtained from the derelict indicated what was known as a 'Mass Relay' was floating in its orbit. This relay, named the Charon Relay, had propelled humanity well past the boundaries of Sol, facilitating the expansion of colonization efforts to systems well past the Sol system. To that cause, the newly formed Systems Alliance had authorized such efforts.

"Dropping off the relay network in five, sir." The junior polite of the _Settlor _announced over his shoulder to the man behind him. The _Settlor _was part of a group of five light tonnage vessels responsible for the furthering of exploration, and if found, hitting the switch on relays. For now though, he would be content on getting out of the mind-bendingly fast travel of the Charon relay. The wavering blue crown of energy wrapped around their nose cone bristled once before leaping back as the _Settlor _cleared the relay connection, the massive rifle-like construction behind them.

"Keep us in line with the others, ensign. Distance to the dormant relay?"

"Approximately... fifty-thousand kilometers, captain. We can engage low-speed FTL drives and be there in a few minutes."

"Acceptable. Punch it as soon as we're clear of the relay station. I've got to go type a mission log. Let me know when the engineers get to work on the relay." Without sparing a second, captain James Wilson turned on his heels, long strides propelling him from the short bridge of the vessel. The _Settlor _was a light ship by any standard, a mere four-thousand tonnes and a hair over a hundred meters long from thrusters to the nose. It was, like many ships of its class, completely unarmed, lightly shielded and had very little between the vast vacuum of space and the pressurized interior. No matter though, it was _his _boat. Whereas the rest of the fleet was busy tending to drug trafficking of that new 'red sand' stuff, the _Settlor _was one of the few vessels designed for deep space exploration.

"_Captain, we're seconds out from the relay, if you'd like to take a look._" Damn, that had come faster than he'd expected, having barely entered his quarters when the transmission whispered into his ear. While he was eager to be part of the exploratory effort, he did not particularly _enjoy _the nausea that followed the rapid acceleration of relay travel, and the sight alone was enough to turn his stomach. Besides, they all looked the same; a partial circle that broke off into two parallel spires, perpendicular to the housing of a massive ball of energy.

"No thank you, ensign. Start the typical scanners and watch the feeds. Wilson out." There really was no need for the scanning equipment. In hundreds of thousands of hours of recorded interstellar flight, not once had any ship ever detected anything more than a rogue asteroid, which were marked and recorded for future analysis, if necessary. While the so-called 'Protheans' – as they had taken to calling them – were certainly an alien race, they appeared to be the last spacefaring civilization, and even then they had dropped off the grid thousands of years prior.

Wilson took comfort in this factoid, as he settled down in front of the terminal in his private quarters to type out a situation report.

**Alliance Navy Office of Exploration  
Regular Transmission 06978L-01  
****Restrictive:**file access restriction 02b  
**From:**Captain James F. Wilson, _Settlor _ (MID#: 47654-7456-AEV059)  
**To:**Mission Control, Lunar Research Base Alpha  
**Subject**:Relay Mission Report 01  
**Timestamp:**11-1-2157 18:40 Earth Time

_At 18:35 Earth time, scout-class vessels Settlor, Aprilia, Rhode Island, Waterloo, and Runner (henceforth 'scouting group' and its variations) exited the relay network with all ships and hands accounted for. Once clear, the scouting group activated FTL (Faster Than Light) drives to advance and begin work on the unlit relay. All scanning equipment is in working order, though there is nothing to detect but stardust and pebbles. Activation teams will be deploying from the Aprilia and Waterloo, as the Settlor, Rhode Island, and Runner maintain watch stations. Currently near orbit of unnamed planet. Next report scheduled for 22:30 Earth time._

_Captain James F. Wilson_

He exhaled lightly as he tapped the send command, leaning back in his chair as his body attempted to quell the general discomfort radiating from his abdomen, courtesy of the relay jump. _A quick nap ought to the trick, _he figured as he keyed his communications. "Ensign Garrity, wake me if something comes up, otherwise, do not disturb me."

* * *

The constant discomfort had turned out to be both a blessing and a curse; a curse as he shifted time and time again in the single-layer cot in his quarters, and a blessing as he was already awake when the panic-tinged voice of the ensign manning the sensor outpost broke over the intercom.

"_Sir! There's... _something _on the sensors, I'm not sure what it is, but it's too big to be an asteroid and it's heading our way!_"

_That _had certainly gotten him out of bed in a heartbeat, as he rubbed bleary eyes focused on the data screens of the bridge. Whatever was coming their way was doing it quickly, at probably better speeds than their ships could achieve, and he mulled over the idea of simply jumping to faster than light travel and getting the _hell _out of there. The idea was quickly quashed, as he realized there were still people on the dormant relay.

The orders came quick, barked from his mouth at uncharacteristically high decibel levels for the normally calm officer. "Ensign Garrity, fire reactors to eighty-percent but keep us still. Who's my communications officer? Get a report off to mission control pronto, miss Young! Hail the _Aprilia _and _Waterloo _on the horn and get their teams back on board! Garrity, get me an ETA on that anomaly!"

A chorus of 'aye-aye's and other affirmations went up as the crew went about their tasks. There was a reasonable chance the only thing that would come up was a bunch of pirate vessels – _human _pirate vessels, he reassured himself – but it never hurt to err on the side of caution.

"Sir, anomalies dropping out of FTL in five... four... three... two... one!"

As a commissioned officer in the Alliance Navy, Wilson had access to all declassified and classified vessels, but the group of ships that dropped into space mere kilometers out looked _absolutely nothing _like anything he'd _ever _seen before.

And that terrified him.

"Miss Young, ping those ships and – _Miss Young, ping those goddamned ships _and get me a name from its registry, I want to – "

"Captain, energy readings are spiking! The emissions are... _different, _but similar to Alliance weaponry – "

"I'm getting a targeting warning here!"

"Captain, they either don't have a name or its in something I can't read!"

Captain Wilson heard nearly none of this. The ships were not particularly large, but a trio of unidentified vessels was more than enough to cause panic, _especially _when their undersides were clearly playing house to energizing weaponry.

"Young, have those teams gotten off that relay yet?"

"... Yes! Shuttles en route! The _Aprilia _is – "

"Energy discharge on the unidentified ships, something big – _holy shit!_"

The_ Waterloo _shuddered under the impact of what he could only describe as swirling blue lasers, its shields – which were mostly intended for high-velocity debris – flaring brightly once before collapsing. It listed to starboard as the beams cut swathes in its diminutive hull, atmosphere venting rapidly in great white clouds. Sparks and small explosions of hydrogen fuel were borne from the ship as it rammed the _Aprilia _in its death throes, its sister ship cut nearly in two as its bulk rammed down upon it. The _Aprilia_'s thrusters flickered once, twice, then were swallowed by the massive fireball that originated in its fuel tanks. The horrific screams of her crew sounded once over the emergency broadcast as unsuited crew members were exposed to the vacuum of space. At the very least, they would not suffer long.

"Captain, tracking two... beams coming our way!"

"Fire port-side emergency thrusters and dump full power into our mains!" Twin thrusters thundered from the port-side, and unsecured personnel were tossed across the deck as they fired. The beams narrowly passed by, the heat they bled still enough to liquefy several layers of their underbelly. Emergency alarms blared on the bridge as the lower decks decompressed, parts of the ship's skeleton exposed to the cold of space.

"Seal the bridge bulkhead and get the crew on breathers!" Captain Wilson's boots grated against the rubberized deck as full power was dumped into the thrusters, the gee forces exerting their considerable force on his unrestrained body.

"Sir! We've got a transmission from the activation teams!" He nodded towards his communications officer. "Aye sir, patching it through now!"

"_kzzzzssshhhhhhhhhhhk Settlor, do you read m–kzzssssh requesting pickup at marker zulu, what the hell is kssssshhhhhhhhhh_" A rally point marker blipped on the main screen, a small red rectangle hovering over two small shuttles.

"Drop the hatch, coordinate with Young to scoop those shuttles out of space on the double!"

The _Settlor _groaned under the sudden stress of full thrust capacity as she rolled to starboard, coming within meters of grazing the underbelly of the _Runner _before undergoing full fore thrust. Thick lines of thruster exhaust swirled across the inky blackness of space as the two remaining Alliance vessels fired navigational thrusters in attempt to line a straight jump to the relay, turning coat to flee; hardly a wise command given the circumstances. Then again, the circumstances were hardly expected.

Two loud knocks sounded from below the deck, the _Aprilia _and _Waterloo_'s shuttles coming to sudden deceleration against a bulkhead. The structural damage was negligible, for now. "Shuttles on board! Closing the hatch and awaiting course, sir!" Ensign Garrity shouted from his position at the helm. Through the view port, two of the three unidentified vessels were seen recharging their weapons, maneuvering to cut off the _Runner _and _Rhode Island_, as the third vessel bore down on them. Glowing strips along the lateral lines of the ship seemed to be dumping extraordinary amounts of heat from the ships, the lines themselves glowing red. _By all that is holy... _

"Garrity, come about to heading zero five zero, nose up zero zero eight! Get me one-fifty percent on the reactor, vent and pump in the secondary coolants if you have to!"

The heat on the deck increased noticeably as the reactor went in a frenzied overdrive, dumping power into the thrusters that would, in retrospect, most likely void the warranty. The regularly muffled hum and vibrations of the reactor jumped to a whole new level, the deck below them quivering as the hum morphed into a steady roar.

"Enemy weapons away! Impact in five seconds!"

"Garrity, starboard thrusters _now!_"

Once more, the _Settlor _was thrown off course as the reactor bled some of its power into the emergency thrusters, which flared brightly and sent the ship rolling to port. The beam of deadly light passed over the _Settlor_ as it rolled under them. Captain Wilson counted to five before exhaling in relief. If they had been hit, he certainly wouldn't have made it to five.

"Bring us into orbit around this rock and keep the reactors running hot! Young, where did the _Runner _and the _Rhode Island_ go?" Captain Wilson barked out.

"Sir, they're... gone. I'm not getting any signals and our aft cameras are out."

Ensign Garrity looked towards her station, bewilderment clear on his face. While their vessels weren't even frigates, to be cut down so easily was... unsettling. Nevermind that, they would have time to mourn and process their loss later.

"Garrity, how's our orbit coming?"

The man fumbled at his displays for a second before their projected trajectory was brought up. "If we maintain this velocity, we'll enter the dark side of the planet in twenty seconds."

He turned to his sensors station. "Miss Young, location of the..." He swallowed – _hard_. "Location of the alien vessels?" There was no denying it at this point. While the Alliance navy _did _have more powerful weapons than those of their pursuer's, they were mounted to the massive cruisers and some of the heavier frigates, certainly not comparatively tiny vessels like those they had just maneuvered about.

"They're turning to chase us, sir. At current speeds, I'd estimate it'll take them less than a minute to turnabout and give chase." Ensign Young's voice shook as she spoke.

"Then we'll give them one helluva chase. Garrity, cycle coolant and shunt the reactor to fifty percent." He paused as he consulted the navigational maps. "Standby for course correction zero zero nine bearing zero eight zero point five and be ready to dump full power to thrusters and FTL drives."

The hull of the _Settlor _chafed against the noxious atmosphere as it descended into its gravity well, their velocity increasing noticeably as did the heat on the deck. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, and he wiped it away with an equally sweaty palm. It would be his luck that the only vessels not equipped for combat would be the ones that found themselves engaged in it.

"Ensign, reactor temperature?"

"Holding within reasonable levels, sir, but the hull is taking one hell of a beating. Course correction and power map online."

The plan was relatively simple: use the gravity well of the planet to boost their speeds, and then a short sprint to the relay and they'd survive. Ducking and running was not exactly an honorable tactic, but this wasn't about honor; it was about survival.

Ensign Garrity broke the wallowing silence of the bridge."Coming out of the dark side of the planet, captain."

"Correct our course, then fire thrusters to break orbit. Once we're clear, get us the hell out of here." The moment was tense, to say the least. "Ensign Young, status on the alien vessels?"

"Sir, they... they _followed _us into the planet's orbit. I think they thought we were landing."

He almost burst into raucous laughter at their unheard of amount of luck. He had expected to have to dodge weapon fire the entire way to the relay, but instead they were slipping away unnoticed. In all likelihood, their pursuers did not realize that humans could not breathe in an ammonia-based atmosphere, and it was all the better for them, considering the ruinous state of their vessel.

"Christ. Full burn to the relay, ensign. Get us home."

* * *

**October 30****th****, 2157  
****Arcturus Station  
****14:34 Hours Earth Time**

Humanity's first intergalactic war was _not _going well. A dozen or more ships had been knocked out of commission by their enemy in mere weeks, with only a handful of victories on their own side. The data in the derelict archives had been invaluable, the developments in shield and armor plating lifesavers for select warships, and yet still it was hardly more than a terse stalemate.

A stalemate, that is, until the Shanxi garrison had went dark shortly after beaming a level one emergency transmission through the relay two weeks prior.

Thereafter, the entire colony had been mute, and the worst was assumed even as the second fleet rallied around the Arcturus station. A two-hundred-thousand tonne station in guard of the relay to the Sol system, the Arcturus station served as a defense platform, a shipyard, and a significant body of the Systems Alliance command. Needless to say, it was the hub of a particularly large amount of wartime activity.

"Are we absolutely positive that the General Williams has surrendered the Shanxi Garrison?" A young and mocha-skinned man spoke across the briefing room table. The standard issue deep blue uniform sleeves were rolled up to his mid biceps, the lapel pierced solely with a small, two letter badge: N7.

Rear Admiral Jon Grissom grimaced as he exhaled slowly; the marine in front of him was a brilliant tactician, but could do with a heavy dose of reality. "Yes, Anderson, we are sure. The entire colony has been dark for several weeks, and it's logistically improbable that the garrison was able to hold out for this long." He paused as he shuffled a stack of papers in front of him, the latest data available on the colony. "That's why we're sending you in. If they've surrendered, which we have little reason to not believe, we need to pull as many of them out as possible. In particular, one general Williams and his non-com staff."

The marine nodded stiffly; He had never been a fan of search and rescue. "Understood, admiral. I hope you're not planning on sending just me in." This elicited a small smile from the officer, the salt and pepper moustache curling with his upper lip. Lieutenant Anderson often second-guessed himself, though he had little reason to most of the time.

"Of course not. You'll be meeting up with your fireteam in a few minutes. I must warn you that while they are _excellent _marines, they're not used to operating under anyone other than their commanding officer."

Lieutenant Anderson's eyebrow rose. If the admiral said they were good, then they were good; what he was more worried about was commanding a non-compliant force. "Is that going to be a problem?"

"Not likely, Lieutenant. The 6th Task Force is a highly trained group of men, but their commanding officer is currently... indisposed. They'll be expecting external command."

"The 6th, sir? I've never heard of them."

The admiral smirked once more, a certain humor in his eyes. "And that is exactly the answer you'll be expected to give if ever asked about them. Do you understand?"

The lieutenant appeared to consider the situation for a moment, weighing his options before speaking. "... No sir, but I won't ask any questions." Anderson shifted in his chair once, the position he then found himself in particularly uncomfortable. A classified operation with an unheard-of unit? Not exactly the norm.

"Good. Their credentials for this op outweigh even my own, so it'd be best for you to focus on the task at hand. You'll be dropping in with a five man detachment at eighteen-hundred local time near the Shanxi Garrison. Expect significant Turian opposition from the start until the end, as it is _highly_ unlikely that they will let you waltz in a steal a valuable POW. Operation files will be delivered to your quarters in the coming hours. Until then," The senior officer stood with a languid salute which the lieutenant returned, albeit much sharper. "Dismissed."

* * *

The element of the 6th stood before him in the dropship, weapons docked on magnetic pads integrated to their combat armour. Despite their apparently normally solitary mission parameters, it was one of the few things that had set their unit and Anderson apart; Whereas Anderson was outfitted in the typical N7 armour set of deep gray and relatively slim paneling with the single red blood stripe, the marines in front of them had adopted more unique armour. In place of the most of the issue equipment were foreign armour components, some of which he didn't even recognize – slim black unarmoured gauntlets that burgeoned into vambraces and round pauldrons, round-peaked chest panels and flexible abdominal guards. The power supply housing was wider than normal, evidence of tough small arms shielding capabilities, but most surprising were their own customizations: a variable smattering of paint in hues of dark earth and tan. It was almost a perfect match for what he knew to be Shanxi's surface, mostly dry dirt and rough terrain that the typical Alliance blue would be obnoxiously visible against, something he often chastised those responsible for. The one thing he did _not_ recognize was a fifteen centimeter cylinder that, by a braided hose, fed something directly into a spare medi-gel port on the back plates of their armour. Some sort of medical device, if he had to guess, given where it fed to.

The entire group, Anderson included, was heavily armed as well. Dull mattes of M-7 Avenger rifles shifted in their hands, the M-3 Predator pistols above and to the side of collapsed M-10 Scimitar shotguns. One of the marines, identified only by the heads-up-display marked that read 'Ross', had swapped the shotgun in favor of a sharp looking sniper rifle, one that he had disassembled and begun maintenance on in mere seconds. The man's hands moved deftly, confidently, each movement coaxing a response from the rifle. _Last minute calibrations?_

"_LT, we're coming up on the drop zone now._" The voice of the marine tagged as Forbes broke over the radio, the dampeners drowning out the sound of their atmospheric descent to Shanxi. Anderson checked the altimeter in the corner of his helmet's display as it ticked closer and closer to zero, bringing them through the hazy atmosphere. It had been a terse ride in, entering over one of the poles to avoid detection by Turian patrol birds and flying low over land to the drop point. Even then, it would be a two mile jog to their objective – a military bunker one General Williams was assumed to be holed up in.

In the distance, charred remains of Shanxi could be seen spitting fumes into the air, remnants of the Turian 'total war' practice. For Anderson it was almost too strange to look at, a smouldering ruin in contrast to its previous state. For the rest of his team, unbeknownst to him, it was worse, being the first steps on a planet outside of Sol.

* * *

"_Ross, find some cover and provide long range support when we come out. We'll be exiting the same we go in._" A mere nod was all the acknowledgment Anderson needed as the marine peeled off their flank, sniper rifle unfurling in his hands as he moved to a far off rocky outcrop. The remaining four were crouched low in an irrigation ditch, sunk several centimeters into the thick mud as they surveyed a vehicle entryway to the bunker. It was, as suspected, taken over by Turians, whom patrolled the sector with long strides and a fair sortie of firepower. Eight of their numbers hovered almost purposelessly about the entrance to one end of the open bunker.

To his pleasant surprise, Anderson had found that the marines worked well with him, accepting his input and keeping him in the loop in return, thought he a creeping suspicion that most of his input had already been suggested by the time _he _brought it up. "_Lieutenant, we're moving up, standard leapfrog. Ross, cover our approach. Weapons free, go hot._" They moved with inhumane fluidity, appearing to drift over land and through patrols leaving only footprints and hardly a bent blade of grass. Precise weapons fire chattered over the approach, dozens of hyper-accelerated particles riddling three of the patrolling Turians. Their lifeless bodies crumpled to the dirt as the rest of them turned to the rapidly approaching marines.

Anderson's Avenger kicked against the crook in his shoulder as it came to bear on one of the aliens, catching him full in the chest with a dithering hail of bullets, the deep blue blood leaking out of smoking holes in its armour. His boots ground against the loose dirt and pebbles as hell broke loose, the constant pounding of small arms fire from both groups. Several of the aliens were cut down in the unexpected rush, lying where they fall from deadly accurate sniper fire or the marines' assault rifles. The plain was practically devoid of cover, and the Turians had hardly lasted long even in their numbers.

"_I think they know we're here now. Should have more cover inside, but expect trouble. Ross, stay up there and take down anyone that tries to come in after us._"

A single click of the mic acknowledged the order as the five marines stacked against the sliding bay door. Ferguson stepped out and around him, placing a circular plasma charge against the thick paneling as he muttered indiscriminately to himself. Anderson boosted his helmet's auditory pickups as he pressed his helmet against the door, intent on trying to hear anything inside, but instead caught the tail end of a whispered conversation between his team. "_Glad to see these haven't changed much._" Forbes' deep voice rumbled behind him, and the three others chuckled appreciatively. Hell, he hadn't even known they were talking. His curiousity arose, and though it was quickly squelched, he wondered what exactly they were talking about having changed, and how so.

There was little time to think either way, as the breaching charge glowed like a miniature sun before melting a smooth hole in the material as it detonated, small tendrils of energy striking out in the dimming light. A blur of movement, and a pair of sensor-disruption grenades – rather, flashbangs – were tossed through the newly formed door. Several audible screams gratified their use, as the marines rushed through the gape and distributed themselves against the wall. Anderson brought his rifle up as he entered, sending two quick bursts into a far off Turian. The thing's shields flashed brightly before collapsing under continued fire, and he shifted his aim to another, finger closing on the trigger. Before his weapon fired, though, Greene was in front of him, a flurry of powerful punches and kicks landing on the relatively soft gaps in the obliques of its armour. The man moved with incredible speed, nearly a dozen hits connected before his opponent had even responded, until he slammed his boot into the inside of what passed for the Turian's knee. It collapsed as bones broke with a sickening crunch, and a second later the dull echo of a point blank pistol shot reverberated through its cheekbone. Anderson barely had time to blink before the man re-holstered his pistol and moved on, bringing his rifle up off his back. _My god, they're fast, _he thought to himself, as Greene commented something to the effect of how he 'still got it after all this time.'

He shook it off quickly, bringing his weapon down as he jogged down the hallway and listened to the marines boots when they fell in behind him. There was something peculiar about the group, something that didn't quite fit in, but he silenced the thought as they rounded a corner and came face to face with a Turian. Barely pausing to stop, he shifted his rifle past the bubble of shields and fired directly into its armoured body. Someone behind him at least seemed to approve, the quiet laughter barely tickling his ears before they entered the next room, strangely devoid of anyone, turian or human.

"We got a signal on the general's implant?"

Forbes nodded once. "Implant is active, 'bout two hundred meters of firefight between him and us, though."

"Two hundred?... I'd forgotten how big this place is." He muttered to himself, well below his breath.

"Well if you'd like, we can leave you here and you can rest your weary feet." The humour-laced words met his ears, the smirk on Forbes' face clear even under the dim lighting. That was damned impressive if he could hear him that well from so far away.

"Very funny. Pound ground, marine."

They broke into a light jog, rifles down at low-ready as their boots padded against the rubberized flooring. Surprisingly, any resistance on their path was limited to pockets of enemy, whom, though well dug in, were easily mowed down with a combination of grenades and gunfire. It was as he stepped over the body of one of the Turian aggressors that a wave of uncertainty rolled over him. The same feeling seemed to overtake the others at the same time.

"This doesn't feel right. Too easy." Greene spoke quietly as he prodded at a dead Turian with his boot.

Forbes and McCarthy seemed to agree, both nodding slightly as they scanned the oncoming hall.

"Are any other implants near them active?" Anderson asked tentatively. They all seemed to speak absurdly quiet, and it nearly affected his own speech.

One of the marines keyed a readout on his wrist before speaking. "Yeah, got a handful of active implants around him, and they're all moving around. If they're POWs then these bastards" He prodded the dead Turian again. "Don't really understand the concept of a prisoner." Anderson got the feeling the man himself wouldn't be too sure what to do with one, either. The group as a whole seemed much more comfortable with a 'shoot first, then shoot again' engagement policy.

"Probably holed up somewhere, if the general has any sense." Anderson couldn't help but agree; General Williams was a helluva tactician, so it would seem logical for him. "I'd suggest tapping into local camera feeds but... well hell, I didn't have time to brush up on my space-age computer security." The last part was spoken at the same low tones as before, but Anderson was closer this time, and his auditory pickups barely caught it.

"'Space-age computer security'? What's that supposed to mean? Most spec-ops teams receive _some _level of security infiltration training." He spoke before his mind had really had time to catch up to his ears, the befuddlement extremely apparent on his dirtied face.

The marine that had mentioned it shuffled uncomfortably, shifting a glance towards Forbes before speaking again. "Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no lies... sir."

The lieutenant merely snorted. "If it isn't my business, it isn't my business. Admiralty trusts you, so do I. If the general really is holed up there, it's a safe bet the Turians are trying to get to him. It'd be wise to stop them before they do – they're not really akin to taking prisoners."

The marines seemed all too happy to get off the touchy subject, nodding once before falling behind the lieutenant. Behind him, he heard the quiet knock of someone cuffing their squadmate in the helmet, and he smirked behind his own. _Classified is classified _he thought to himself.

The duration of their travels was an extremely short and unopposed jog, and they slowed to a halt as their three-dimensional map told them they were around the last corner before the general's hideaway room. As predicted, the area was dense with aliens.

Forbes devised the plan before he did. "Anderson; McCarthy and Ferguson will sweep up the left gantry, myself and Greene the right. If you can, get comfortable here and provide overwatch." The five of them nodded, apparently comfortable with sweeping a room from gantries with minimal cover, while he himself would be stuck in the uncomfortable position of drawing the entire rooms fire before the team could do anything themselves.

"Looks like I get all the glory, huh?" He muttered to no one in particular as he lay out his remaining grenades and flashbangs, his assault rifle and pistol propped up next to them behind a layer of crates for quick access.

"_That you do, Anderson._" The radio whispered in his ear. _How the hell did he – ah, nevermind._ The lieutenant shook his head futilely as he watched the marine's creep further and further away, rolling quickly through a lighted spot and back into the shadows.

It was a tense couple of minutes as the marines got into position, the Turians banging on the door – the electronic locks seemed to have been disabled, as the access panel lacked the holographic controls they typically glowed with – and shouting in warbling alien tongues as others brought some sort of equipment to the door. It was a short cylinder linked to long flexible boom of some sort, and he was surprised to see intense white-hot energy gleaming at its tip before it set against the door. _An alien blow torch. How primitive for such an advanced race._

He shifted the stock of his assault rifle against his shoulder, his cheek welded on the smooth angle of the rifle as he peered intently down the sight. A tweak of a knob and the picture leaped closer before refining – variable zoom, particularly helpful – and the small dot reticule hovered over the base of the alien's head. He considered squeezing a shot off, but internally knew that it was likely the thing was shielded and that his rounds, while powerful, would not be a killing shot. Instead, he breathed deep, waiting for the marine's signal. Past the scope, he saw a slight shift of light as one of the marines took cover behind a support arch, the wide beam affording a good firing position.

"_Change of plans, Anderson. You get their attention, and we'll take them out from behind once they start moving your way. We got your back._" Forbes' voice once again whispered in his ear, silent for a moment. "_Theirs, too._"

Anderson heaved a sigh at the man's quip. The gravity of the situation hardly called for such mockery, he knew, but at the same time he couldn't help but smile at their confidence as he realigned his reticule on the door-cutting Turian.

"_Any time now._"

_Really_, it was almost like dealing with overeager recruits, except these ones happened to be terrifyingly effective killers. He snorted once more, before steadying his breathing and tapping the trigger once. The rifle barked its report, the effect immediately visible on the alien group as they hesitantly jumped to battle stances. It echoed in the room thrice more, each round pounding against the shield of the Turian before a final round blast through its neck and it crumpled in front of a mural of deep blue blood.

His death certainly seemed to galvanize the rest of the aliens into action, as Anderson barely had time to duck before his position was blasted with dozens of rounds. He took the opportunity to grab and overhand a grenade into where he guessed the Turians would group, and his efforts were rewarded with the warbled cries as it shook the room, tossing chunks of cover and bodies like rag dolls.

"_A little more, Anderson. They're about twenty meters from you._"

Enemy fire still pinged off his cover as he tentatively leaned out of the side. The marine was correct, as the nearest alien was still a fair stretch off, and he brought the short barreled pistol around and blasted a salvo of rounds in its direction before retreating behind cover. The relatively weak pistol's heatsinks swung into the open air, the hot exhaust gas billowing from its reservoirs as dropped it and retrieved his assault rifle. The enemy fire on his cover had intensified, as chunks of all sizes were blasted from his cover. They didn't even have to move up, they just had to lay on the trigger and eventually they would shoot their way through it. "Not a bad way to go, I guess." he muttered darkly as he fired his rifle blindly around cover.

"_Sorry mate, you'll have to die another day._" The small arms fire was interrupted by the deafening barks of shotguns, the intense blasts repeating as multiple aliens were cut down in the initial salvo. A second later, a chorus of explosions sounded off as grenades found the niches in the foe's line and gore and flooring alike were thrown into the air. Anderson rolled out of cover once more, bringing the fire of his assault rifle onto one of the few remaining targets. Its shields flared brightly once before collapsing with a clap, and its body was riddled with holes. For his part, Anderson received a smattering of rounds which dropped his own shields dangerously low, and he was forced to take cover even as his attacker was cut down by accurate cover fire.

Caught in a devastatingly effective pincer, the aliens were cut down and the skirmish ended almost as abruptly as it had begun. Anderson was on his feet after his shields indicated a full charge, surveying the damage to his cover amusedly. The caustic nature of their enemies rounds had left the crate charred as well as crumbled, and he noted the depth of the pockmarks. Indeed, another few seconds and he would have given swiss cheese a run for its money.

"_Good to see you're still kicking. Greene, get that torch going again._"

* * *

"General Williams? Are you in there sir!?" Anderson called through the smouldering cracks of the metal door. Below him, Greene worked slowly, the blinding white flame making short work of their deterrent.

Shadows played across the gash in the wall as someone moved on the other side. "Assuming you are Alliance personnel, yes, yes I am in here. To whom might I be speaking to?" The weathered voice of general Williams sounded muffled behind the thick saferoom doors, but carried the same authoritative air of any of his higher up's.

"I'm lieutenant Anderson, _N7_ special operations forces. My..." He looked around at the assembled men briefly. "Team and I are here to pull you out." Whatever humour had previously found hold in his voice was gone; in front of command, Anderson was all business. "Careful sir, this chunk of wall is about to come down."

And come down it did, the reverberations echoing about the room as the hunk of wall was pulled back and smashed into the flooring. Anderson had a new-found appreciation for alien tech, noting the torch had cut through nearly half a foot of sandwiched metal with relative ease. He also had a new-found respect for just how striking the muzzle of a pistol looked on the business end, as he found himself face to face with one wielded by the previously-entrapped general. The older man smiled and, after a brief moment of consideration, lowered the weapon. "Can't be too careful, lieutenant Anderson; remember that now."

* * *

**October 31****st****, 2157  
****Arcturus Station  
****00:34 Hours Earth Time**

The ride in the extraction shuttle had been thoroughly uneventful, not that he was complaining, as had the trek to it; again, not that he was complaining. Lieutenant Anderson landed in his terminal's chair, the joint creaking once as it accustomed itself to his mass. No, he was quite alright with not being shot at. What he was not quite alright with was the disappearance of his team after they had docked with the Arcturus Station. One moment he was escorting the general into the awaiting security team, and by the time he had turned around, the 6th had simply vanished. There were a number of exits they could have taken, certainly, but it was rather that they made an effort to go unnoticed that perturbed him.

Luckily, he had friends on station security – friends that had allowed him access to the camera archives.

It was these archives that popped up on the terminal's screen, the typical day-in and day-out processing of the security checkpoint. He swept his hand through the air, and the computer responded accordingly, jumping him ahead several hours of the footage. A couple and their son were being processed through security, and he jumped ahead again, this time landing a few seconds before they docked with the station.

It was odd seeing himself on the view screen, his armour dirty – though not nearly as dirty as the 6th team's appeared – and his face streaked with grime. He watched himself escort the general to the waiting team, and his eyes barely shifted upwards in time to witness the marines behind him move with surprising speed out of one of the docking bay doors. A quick tap brought him to the bay over's camera, just as the recorded 6th swept through. Even over the camera's extremely sensitive microphone he could barely hear their boots, though in all fairness his hearing wasn't exactly top notch; he'd have to get that checked out before the next op. They turned off, jogging through a similar docking tube as the one they had just stepped out of. The tube was marked E-24, its adjacent bay playing host to a very confused looking Anderson on a smaller screen, and he tapped in a command that brought him the recorded feed from the external station cameras.

The ship they apparently boarded was a small one, not even frigate class – It actually looked more like a medical ship – but its engine baffles told much of its surprising thruster power. It was marked with an arch of two widening bars over the Earth – the symbol of the Systems Alliance – but no registry numbers were painted on its hull. Biting his lip in confusion, he brought up the station's docking logs, keying in the search terms to bring up E-24's logs. What he found, though, was somewhat more disconcerting: in the timeslot for their docking, it claimed their were no docking requests made or fulfilled.

_A ghost team on a ghost ship. What in the hell is going on..?_

* * *

_(Insert typical self-disparaging remarks here. I'm not a fan of the formatting in this editor - I can't do double line breaks without it auto correcting to single line breaks, which throws my formatting for a loop. Eugh. And to those of you that have, thanks a bunch for the reviews! It's always heartwarming to hear positive stuff, even though the view traffic graph is rather amusing - There's almost four times the views on the first section as there are on the most recently updated section. Ah well, I'll live!)_

_(And for those of you wondering, yes, I do beta-read my own stuff. I'd feel like a stinker asking someone else to do it.)_


	8. Chapter IX: The Crickets Have Arthritis

**April 15****th****, 2175  
****Vetus System  
****12:10 Hours  
****Aboard to the _SSV_ _Repose_**

Elysium – a planet once lauded by a retiring general Grissom for its propensity to alpine beauty – was a sight for sore eyes for one Dr. Karin Chakwas. It had been years since she had last been stationed there; nearly twenty, when she thought about it. Twenty full years since she had bore witness to one of humanity's most inhumane experiments. It had been a short advisory position, unsealing half of the cases and rehabilitating their inhabitants. She had learned, to her utmost horror, that they had been sealed for decades at a time, some of them opened at the admiralty's discretion to be used like precision tools. That had been 'above her pay-grade' as some of the more stiff-lipped men had reminded her.

And yet, despite what atrocious acts had been committed, she had felt a responsibility towards the group, likening herself to their guiding force in an unfamiliar world. Her lips, until then curled into an easy smile, wilted as she remembered one of their first conversations; it had been like speaking with an amnesiac. Five had been opened regularly since then, four more remaining at rest, dormant and hushed.

But no longer.

The _SSV Repose _swooped down low through the atmosphere, guidance thrusters firing sporadically as the navigational computer readjusted their entry vector a hundred times a second. The doctor was one of many on board the hospital ship, but was the only one leaving, and it brought her no small amount of joy to reflect upon her history on the ship as she sorted through her already neatly packed trunk. Her omnitool sprang to life, a multi-layer orb floating centimeters above the small, watch-like device on her wrist – she had a call.

An aged and weathered face rose from the device, wrinkled skin beneath the visor of the cover he wore, the blue of his uniform clashing magnificently with the signature orange glow of the holographic frame. "_Doctor Karin Chakwas, I presume?_"

Her own voice broke the silence in the empty med-bay of the _Repose. _"_You _called _me_, admiral, I should hope you would know."

If at all insulted by the doctor's brisk words, he did not show it, instead allowing a rare smile to reach his eyes. "_Of course, doctor. I wanted to be the first to welcome you to Elysium. When you dock, there will be a man by the name of David Anderson waiting for you just before customs. He'll accompany you in._" The admiral's eyes shifted off screen for a second as he consulted a young staff member. "_And doctor... I look forward to having someone of your experience on the team. Hackett out._"

* * *

**April 17th, 2175  
Elysium  
15:32 Hours**

_A woman hovers over him; she is distantly familiar, the chocolate sweep of hair that spilled over her shoulders. It is dark, midnight wearing over, but he can see her perfectly as she sits next to him, legs crossing idly. After a moment, he is stunned by a jolt of electricity as her finger tips dance across his bare chest, the green orbs of her eyes communicating a sense of urgency and hunger. The tinkle of soft giggling echoes in the room, pale pink lips whispering indecipherable words in his ear as he lay. A lock of hair slides over her smooth cheekbone, drifting lazily in front of her as he tries to raise a hand to push it back in place. His body does not respond, and he tries again as his eyes roll down in their sockets; her hand is wrapped about his wrists, the thin fingers displaying an easy strength as his hand flails about beneath them; a pain with no roots sears through his locked wrists. Why was she doing this? He can hear his heartbeat pick up in tempo, bass pounding in the empty room as a ray of light is cast through the thick curtains of the window. The steady thump picks up once again, a near unanimous throb as the light from the window intensifies. It shouldn't be doing that, should it? He realizes, then, that the light is stealing its glow from the woman, fading before his eyes even as the silent screams call for her. A deafening wail sounds in the distance, the pealing lamentation shivering him down to his very bones as she disappears completely, and the room bursts in a supernova of furious light._

Croaking gasps wreaked from his lips as Shepard awoke, eyelids snapping apart as his limbs strained recklessly against bands of arched metal. Everything that he felt was foreign and unnatural – the heartbeat pounding against his chest, the swell of his ribcage as lungs sucked in deep gusts of oxygen, the very tissue of his skin as something in his head rioted against the sensation of being alive. The air tasted odd, metallic and scrubbed by his tomb's filters. Above him, the translucent purple glass shield came to a stop, opening the pod to the atmosphere of the bay as streams of fog, cool and thick, rose from the venting at his feet and into the open air of the bay.

A number of gowned men and women moved about hastily behind the limitations of a simple waist-high thin pipe fence, subtle glances cast his way and to the sides, and he was relieved to find he wasn't _completely _bared to world as he felt the waistband of some sweatpant on his waist. Colors bloomed in front of his eyes as he blinked, his brain sluggishly processing the bleariness as he focused once more. He tasted his lips and nearly gagged, the dryness of skin coated in some gummed fluid, putrid at best, before testing his nose and finding the air smelled little better than it tasted; metallic, coppery and salty.

"Hello there." An older woman spoke from an arm's length away from him as the metal restraints slipped away from his limbs. Curiousity wrinkled her brow while her arms crossed over her chest as she regarded him – something that ultimately reminded him of Dr. Shaw, the thought of whom immediately sent his mind reeling. It felt like an age since he had seen her in that little ward unit. Parts of her face were fuzzy in his memory, her edges surreptitiously blending with the midnight-black of a room long forgotten. He slowly became aware of the feeling of... of _awareness _bleeding into his limbs, and his fingers crackled and popped as he brought his hands to his face, turning them in front his eyes and uncurling them as they went. The doctor only watched with light amusement as every joint in his body popped after an untold length of downtime while he forgot himself in rubbing the haze from his eyes. It was a moment before he remembered his manners.

"Ma'am." The word wavered as it was spoken, vocal chords long since used warming to the sudden activity. His voice, bared and croaky but quiet, rose once more as he sorted through dozens of questions that raced through his brain. _What's going on? How did I get here? _He knew his name, who he was in a sense even, but the name 'John Shepard' meant little to him at that moment. It didn't have a history, it was just... a name. It felt like it belonged to another man, a man he didn't know. In the end, he settled with the basics: "Where am I?"

The doctor looked over him once more, inquisitive eyes scanning over his every movement. "You're on a military base on Elysium, John." She spoke with a kindness befitting her profession, calm and steady, though he noted the less-than-subtle accent; British, if he had to guess.

"Elysium..." The word rolled off his tongue, exotic and strange. It too had no meaning to him. "Elysium?" He repeated, confusion lacing his speech. Something surfaced in his mind; Georgia, and his thoughts drifted as he tried desperately to think through the numbing haze blanketing his mind. "Is that in... In Georgia?"

For her part, she stifled a snort that threatened to escape her lips. "Right, we have a _lot_ to catch you up on."

* * *

Shepard shifted in his seat, sliding an inch forward as he leaned back and curtailed his eyes with stretched hands while he rubbed his temples. He was seated at an almost barren metal table in the confines of some small room, with naught but a cup of water to keep him company. Earlier he had, though not without difficulty, extricated himself from the huge sleeper tube and subsequently been given a stack of clothing – deep navy blue cargo slacks and and matching shirt that were embroidered on the left breast with a symbol he didn't recognize, though he certainly _was _intrigued by the miniature model of the Earth that they incorporated – and ushered towards a room. He had opted instead for a pair of ashen cargo pants and light gray crew neck tee found in a connected closet, much to the doctor's chagrin.

"You know, it wouldn't kill you to wear what we asked you to wear." The still unnamed female doctor spoke wryly as she fell into the seat opposite him with an exaggerated sigh, a full half-hour after he had been woken.

He eyed the woman curiously from over his stretched hand for a moment; She wasn't _old _per se, though he could tell she was several years his senior, but her eyes held a mismatched youthfulness even then. Her skin was smooth, devoid of wrinkles, which struck him as odd given the straight and dignified gray of her hair. Whatever the case, she certainly seemed bright enough either way, and his chest rose before he spoke in turn. "Blue clashes with my eyes." His eyes, of course, _were _blue. "Ma'am, I don't even know your name, and I_ still _don't know where I am. 'Elysium' isn't a place I'm familiar with."

"That," She began as she leaned back into the cushioned seat of her office chair. "is because you are no longer on _Earth._" She amused herself with his expression as he took the news, one slim black brow arching considerably on the ungodly pale skin. "And for the record, my name is Karin Chakwas, _not _ma'am."

After a moment, Shepard too seemed to find the situation equally amusing, and his grin widened progressively before he burst out laughing – or as much as he could in his debilitated state; cryogenic sleep had left his muscular structure completely intact, but after being under for so long, his body was wholly unprepared for even the least strenuous activity. The ache in his throat felt cold and raw, even as it burned from breathing, but the experience made him feel _alive_, and the sensation in itself was exhilarating and courting for that very reason.

"While that's not _entirely_ unbelievable, I'm going to need more proof before you've got me convinced." He spoke through fits of raucous chuckles, all the while drinking from the styrofoam cup of water and pressing fingers against his larynx in attempt to soothe the icy hot burn. "I mean really, it's been like – "

"You've been in cryogenic sleep for one-hundred and forty-seven _years_, John. Times have changed." The smooth composure of her voice nor the equally calm expression did much to help his spluttering.

Several moments of strained hacking and gasped breath left him worse for the wear, and the fresh waves of aching did little for the man as he attempted to down the rest of the water. "Excuse me? A little," Another fit of choking broke through his voice, and he took several deep breaths before it settled. "A little warning would have been nice." _A hundred years? It feels like it was just yesterday_ he thought, and an uncomfortable question sprang up foremost. _Am I still me?_

"Completely you. You were put into extremely negative temperatures while asleep, which I imagine has contributed to the partial degeneration of this 'necrotic agent' I'm reading mention of in your file." He had unknowingly voiced the question aloud in his severely depreciated mental state, and Karin helpfully filled in for his subconscious. He didn't even think he would have a file anymore. "Though I suppose only time will tell if it resurfaces. Apparently the salarians are researching it under the guise of general vaccination purposes."

Something pinged in his brain, a connection between what she said and... something. "Salarians? I feel like... Like I've heard that name before." Images foreign and not of his own design seemed to project themselves in front of his vision like a movie; diminutive, twin-horned reptilian figures rising in his mind. _I must be going crazy._

"You have, in a sense." When all the response he gave her was another crooked brow, she heaved a sigh and continued. "Subliminal learning, using magnetic waves to encourage cortex – "

Shepard blanked and put his hands up in mock surrender, waving her off as he found the idea of intensive thought repulsive at the moment. "Okay, okay, that's all I needed to know, I swear."

"Well, you _did_ ask." A devious snicker followed her words.

"I suppose I did. I've got a question, if you don't mind." She nodded her permission. "Last time I was... conscious, I could barely lift a finger, much less walk around and speak." That, at least, was still particularly fresh in his memory. The feeling of suffocating fatigue and in general complete depletion abided on in his mind like he was only fresh out of it. For a second, it felt as though it were returning, the devitalization washing over him like a wave but lingering for only a hesitant moment as it passed on. "How am I still standing?"

The doctor paused for a moment, surprise tinging her features as she idly fooled around with a pen. "Your memory is already coming back? Interesting; technically you should very nearly have forgotten who you are." She noticed he quickly tensed at that, brow furrowed as he sat up straighter and prompted her to continue. "Like I said earlier, the temperatures of cryogenic sleep are not conducive to that particular strain. I've also taken the liberty of pumping you chock full of potent antibiotics that will do wonders for effective lymphocytic – "

"I'll take your word for it." He stopped her once more, an aching headache demanding it. That much was evident, as he grimaced under a fresh assault on his temples. "Either way, if I'm here, I'm guessing it's for a reason. What's the objective?"

A hint of coyness played on her upturned lips as she sorted through the file folder of paper, glancing up at him briefly before turning back to her notes. "Not a fan of small-talk, then?" He only shrugged apologetically. "One of these days, John, you're going to have to. Mark my words."

It was only until she caught him staring expectantly that she seceded with a mock scowl. "Oh alright, I was going to make you ask nicely, but I can see you don't play well with others." She wagged her pen at him condescendingly. "I should add that to your file."

"Doctor..." The exasperation was heavyset on his face, though he knew inwardly he would normally enjoy engaging in the good-natured banter.

"Yes, I think I _will_ add that." She declared pompously, nose turned up to the ceiling as she scribbled something down on her page. It was a face she could only hold for a small notch of time, as her facade soon fell into a disarray of shameless giggling, lasting several moments until she steadied her own breathing. Much to her pleasure, there was a newfound glint in his eye, and the corners of his mouth were currently faulting in their ongoing struggle to stay neutral.

"See, John? It doesn't hurt to be friendly." The humour had not yet left her voice even as she lectured him, but it was subdued when she continued. "As far as your 'objective' goes, you would have to ask your new commanding officer."

Shepard shook his head in disbelief at the kindly doctor's antics; they might actually get along in time, though he felt a pang of guilt as he realized that her being there would mean Dr. Shaw would have long since passed. "When do I meet him?"

"I hoped now would be a good time." How he had not noticed the tall, if somewhat heavy, dark-skinned and uniformed man enter the room was beyond him at the moment, and he was on his feet and standing with a tight – if somewhat strained – salute in typical reflexive practice in a flash. His body did not protest this sudden movement quietly, and he was eternally grateful when he was allowed to drop back down to his chair, his limbs tingling with the heat of retribution. Karin's chair scooted back as she stood, proffering her seat to the incoming commanding officer. Her steps echoed daintily in the small room, before the door eased open and closed on well-greased hinges and the officer sat fully in the chair.

"John Shepard. Never thought I'd see you on your feet." The man smiled appreciatively as he extended a calloused hand over the table. "I'm commander David Anderson,N7 marine and previously the executive officer for the SSV _Hastings_." The two men shook cordially, even though Shepard was not entirely sure what an 'N7 marine' was.

"The honor's mine, sir." As they retracted their hands, Shepard couldn't help but linger on one of the many tabs pinned to the commander's chest – the letters _N7 _followed by a squared triangle of blood red on the outside edge of the _7_ – something that did not go entirely unnoticed.

"Ah, I forgot about your situation. N7 is considered the best of the best, Shepard, top-tier operators... Though if an old fogy like me is still a part, I'm betting the standards aren't quite as high anymore." The men shared an appreciative chuckle. Self-depreciating humour was such an icebreaker. "I had the opportunity to work with your detachment a few times in my past, Shepard, it's what made me seek you out. If you're half the marine they were," – Shepard stiffened visibly at this – " you and your squad could do a helluva lot of good. Right now, Alliance colonies are being hit by everything from batarian slavers to vorcha pirates; we could use your boots on the ground."

Shepard pushed the images that had queued up when the commander had said 'batarian' and 'vorcha', instead focusing on the much more important chunks that had been mentioned: "Pardon my asking, sir; you said 'half the marine they_ were_'. What do you mean by that?"

The commander nodded grimly, as if condemning himself to some unspeakable demise. "Team two of your detachment was part of a high-risk exploratory effort on Akuze. Forty-five good hard marines, and five of your team." He exhaled deeply and tapped a few commands on the omnitool that sprang to life over his wrist. Shepard had, of course, seen a few of them being used already, but the devices still held great interest to him, and he watched with carefully managed excitement. A notepad-sized screen was beamed into the air, the still image depicting some grotesque yet awe-inspiring subterranean beast exploding through the ground of some planet. It's glowing blue tongue – which alone shocked him enough – was surrounded by two sets of thin, feeler-like mandibles, and overlapping layers of dirt-colored shale-like armour covered what passed for its abdomen. On each side of its body a half-dozen long and clawed legs were extended, headed by two powerful looking brown pincers sprouting from its dome-like head. "A thresher maw, big ugly bastard if I ever did see one. They got hit during the night by a handful of them... No survivors. I'm sorry, Shepard." The commander watched intently as Shepard bored holes in the table between them, white knuckles threatening to rip up the edges. _Your men, dead, on some alien world a trillion miles away from home, while you sat back and did nothing. _He berated himself for a full minute, thinking over how things could have gone different if only he had been there to help, to at least do something, anything, other than _fucking sleep_.

"They were good men, gave as good as they got; found a whole mess of thresher blood and bits all over."

Knowing they at least went out with honor seemed to sate some internal process, and his distress slowly ebbed away. "I... I understand, sir. I'm not happy, but I understand."

It would be several minutes before either of them spoke again, Shepard staring down the horrific thresher maw on the omnitool, and Anderson searching for some trace of emotion in his hardened features. _Barely awake, and he's already lost half his unit _the older officer thought bitterly. _But that's why we need them._

"Sir? If you don't mind my asking... What do you need with me?" The low undertone of Shepard's voice reverberated in the silence, a hint of a challenge carried upon it. He understood; the man would need time to come to terms with the losses, and more importantly, something to motivate him. He thought he might know just the thing.

"We'll be pushing you and your team through all seven levels of N7 training over the course of the next few months, Shepard; that's usually progressed over several years, but you're a tough marine. I don't think you'll have any trouble with it." The commander leaned forward over the table, setting the loose knot of his hands in the center. "But most importantly, I need you be ready. That was our first encounter with thresher maws, we'd never seen them before – but you can be damned sure it wasn't our last."

A steely fire burned in the depths of his eyes once more. "Count on it."

"Glad to hear it. Just for now, focus on the task at hand. You've got a lot of work in front of you, Shepard." He stood, Shepard following suit with a crisp salute.

"I look forward to it, sir."

* * *

The black of empty space met his eyes, speckled with glittering stars and celestial bodies as far as his vision reached. A massive ships port-side thrusters flared briefly before the main engines burned white hot as it shot out of system with a gratuitous clap, leaving behind only streaks of light that twisted and faded into the void. Breath misted upon thick glass as he crossed his arms in front of an observation panel. Beyond him, a door panel lit green as it eased open.

"Pretty crazy, huh?" Dan's normally thick drawl was subdued as he walked, staring out through the port as he approached. His hands were knotted behind his back.

Shepard barely responded except to nod slowly, another deep breath drifting from his lips. "Yeah. Pretty crazy." In the distance, stars, planets, lights, whatever they were, twinkled mockingly, as if consciously jesting at their disbelief.

"Thinkin' about home?"

"Yeah." He replied numbly, though only a partial truth. The thought of home, the family he hadn't seen in more than a handful of years, the people he had had to move on from, they had all encroached upon his conscious, demanding attention for the past decades unremembered. It had worn on him at first, eating away at his sanity – had he abandoned them willingly? – only fading after he had succumbed to troubled sleep. "Yeah. It doesn't feel right. We don't belong here."

Dan chortled behind shut lips, deep murmurs reverberating through the empty port room. "I get what you mean. Still, we're just marines along for the ride, ain't nothin' we can do about it."

He snorted in amusement as he shook his head; his friends lackadaisical analysis was, for once, correct. The mere technological hurdles humanity had crossed were mind-boggling enough, he didn't need to be second-guessing his own existence. He was, however, eager to dig into the backlogged research of advancements their civilization had gone under, but that was for another time. "Yeah, you're right, just wasn't what I was expecting. When we... I don't know, left? When we left, we were killing over a square kilometer of ground. Now we're up here and..." He paused, heaving a sigh. "It's crazy."

"Lucky for us, war never changes, only what we're shooting."

Shepard tore his gaze from the incredible view to look at his companion, dumbfounded by the brusque statement before he turned back. "I don't think that's going to go over well. It's not just man versus man anymore, which is hard enough to think about. Humanity is no longer alone." A shrug shifted topics after a moment of silence. "Have you read any of the docs they sent us? Everything's so... _different_ now."

A derisive scoff rose in Dan's throat.. "Only you. I was still trying to get my legs to work a half hour ago." He paused as he summoned another breath. "I did get to see that _thing _that took out half of the guys though. Can't wait to get a crack at it."

"You mean those thresher maws? The commander told me about them. I don't think we're going to be seeing, er – " 'Head or tail' didn't really fit; they implied they were clearly different ends. " – _whatever _passes at that things head anytime soon.

Dan was quiet for a long time. They stood, each sifting through their own thoughts as they gazed out across the wide traverse. For Shepard, it was about the future, and somehow absorbing all the new information. Adapt, achieve, and overcome – that's what he'd been taught. That's what had been drilled into his head over years of experience. For Dan, it was all about home.

"Think we'll ever see California again?"

"I don't see why not." He shrugged absently.

"Shepard, we're on a _spaceship _in a different _solar system_." Dan grimaced as he straightened out and moved towards the door. "I think we'll be lucky if we even see it from afar."

He'd have to do something about that attitude, eventually, but for now, he let the man brood. A group of boxy freighter ships winked into existence as they dropped out of faster-than-light travel, immense clouds of ionization dumping from behind engine baffles before they rumbled into motion once more. An appreciative hint of a smile touch upon Shepard's face, watching the trio of ships move off. They weren't like anything he'd ever seen before, of course, and the idea that such a massive object could actually fly. _I wonder... _An orange holographic interface winked into life above his forearm, the omnitool they had loaned him powering on as he typed in a query for weapon specifications. The device quickly compiled a full list of extranet links spanning several pages, and he opted for the second result, skipping over an advertisement for a 'nerve stimulator' program with mild discomfort. A long document expanded into full, and he settled into a comfortable sitting position against the window as he began reading.

* * *

**February 26****th****, 2176  
****Elysium  
****24:15 Hours  
****Somewhere in the Caldium forest**

"I lied; nothing about me has ever looked forward to this."

A murmur of agreement wallowed in the filling barracks as men and women literally fell into their bunks, some still dressed in dirt stained combat armour that muddied the drab woolen linens. Somewhere in the room, Shepard could hear patches of the whispered prayers of one of his team – most likely Dan, as he had always been somewhat more spiritual than the rest of them – under the parade of boots and discarded gear. Normally he could see near perfectly in the absolute darkness of the dormitories, but he had little sight past his heavy eyelids as he stumbled over a spare pair of boots onto the thin mattress. He had landed hard, the polymer plates of the training suit smacking against each other as he did, his neck straining uncomfortably in support of the weighty helmet. When commander Anderson had said it was grueling training, he had expected pain, misery, long nights and early mornings, not at all unlike their specialized training back on Earth – something he still had a hard time believing was behind him.

Whatever he was expecting, he had gotten; except ten times worse. They had been in the field for weeks on end, the training missions split by long marches at quick paces, endless physical exercise, classroom instruction (something he had laughed at the idea of) and more. The missions themselves had complex parameters, each decision ultimately having some consequence, and stretched for days in various situation simulations, like zero-gravity and unforgiving environments. He had cleaned more sand, mud, smoke buildup and debris out of his helmet's air filters and from the armor joints than he had thought was physically possible. Hell, he had even been forced to do in-field repairs, filling and smoothing something the other trainees had called 'omnigel' into deep crevasses in the plates where it flash solidified into a light-white polymer, restoring a healthy fraction of its functionality. As a result, his and most all of the other trainee's armour was dented and bruised even as little cracks of the white material webbed out from damaged locations. Haggard repairs, yes, but an invaluable lesson.

The strangled hum of his helmet's air filter was indicative of its condition, and he muttered grumpily as he rolled over and pawed at the clasp releases before tugging the damned thing off. It looked whipped and battered, some of the dark paint literally sanded off in the intense dust storms of the last exercise. Apparently it had been meant to allow them to gain experience operating on the likes of some planet called Tuchanka, but mostly it had served as a brutal exercise in simply staying alive and upright in various environmental factors. Turning a few tabs to remove a ventilation housing, he knocked the inside of the mouthpiece once, twice, watching the fine grains of sand drift from the filter as he keyed a switch to reverse the intake fan's direction. The permeable paper ballooned outward like a sail, dirt and other objects tumbling out at speed. Content, he set the helmet down on the floor next to his cot, intent on going to sleep until a flutter in the air around him reminded him that something was wrong with his shield modulator.

The rectangular device slid out of its socket smoothly, the wallet-sized brick heavy in his hand as he pulled a metal shield off to uncover its circuitry. He remembered the first time he had ever peeked inside it as he went through all the new technology he'd been issued; of course, he was thoroughly confused by the mass of tubes and wires and chips until a helpful junior technician had coaxed him through it. The boy's name evaded his thoughts as he levered out a burnt electron regulator, the coupling blackened and cracked next to the smaller backup which hummed with energy. He turned it over in his gloved hand, surveying the damage the stun rounds had tolled out on its capabilities, and his off hand sought out the spare tube of omnigel he kept in the in-suit storage. It wouldn't hold forever, and the chances of it rupturing _again _were quite high, but the diminished capabilities of his shields dictated he at least try, and so he deftly squeezed a thin strip of the silvery gel over the fissures before smoothing it over as the material set. _There, all better._ He looked upon it satisfactorily before pushing it back into its socket. It flickered briefly, and then the energy began humming through it again, light glowing through the translucent omnigel repairs as it worked. He would need to get a new replacement unit in sooner rather than later, but for now he was content to lay back on the stiff cot and rest his heavy eyes for a few hours.

* * *

Unfortunately, it was just not to be.

The concept of flashbang grenades had changed surprisingly little since he had last seen them, and he would be less-than-thrilled to be able to testify that they did a fantastic job being wake-up alarms as a single metallic cylinder was rolled into the room full of sleeping marines.

He had never been up faster in his life.

His ears sang out, ringing even after his helmet had sealed over his head as he scrambled out of bed and reached for his pistol. The gloved fingers closed around the familiar rubberized and stippled grip, the once-glossy bulk now dull and matte as he brought it to bear. A quick glance to the clock on his heads-up display confirmed his suspicion as the muscles in his body sobbed their aching misery: He had only been asleep for a few hours at most. The pistol kicked as bolts flashed from its muzzle, the yellow glow indicative of the training rounds they all used. Getting used to the new weaponry had been one of the hardest things for him to do, even after it was explained how they worked; accelerating tiny particles to a minute fraction of the speed of light. Impressive tech in a small package, but he missed traditional brass shell casings and jacketed rounds.

A bubble rippled around him as his shields took a half dozen hits from the invading trainers – he noted with some satisfaction that they held up much better than they would have the day prior – and he was forced to dive behind the relative safety of a nearby bunk. Around him, other trainees reacted somewhat less quickly, falling in paralyzed armour as the stun rounds reached the reactive circuits that would lock the armour in place to simulate a death. One of his team rose from behind similar cover, his rounds echoing in the confined quarters, and he was pleased to see Dan had not been one of those caught unawares.

A quick wave caught his eye as he descended behind cover in the nick of time; several glowing rounds peppered the overturned table he crouched behind. " 'Ey Shepard! G'mornin' sunshine!" Dan's booming drawl rolled over the firefight easily before he started the squad communications software. Four names winked into life on the list his omnitool projected, Pat and Taylor somewhere else in the building but still reporting in as 'active'.

Shepard risked a glance over the bunk frame, a single round dropping his shields to half-strength as it pinged off near his helmet. _Christ_. There had been five men approaching from down the long room, all clad in the telltale blue Alliance armour and taking cover in the room as the other trainees engaged them in a fierce firefight. "Dan, open that door and we'll go around them!"

He pushed off with his right foot, launching into a full headlong run over the short distance as the door was eased open, Shepard barely fitting through the gap that had cleared. It opened to the dark and empty central hallway that connected the four dormitories, and he took the lull in combat to pull Dan up and through into the hallway.

"Taylor, Pat, you up?"

Silence greeted his words, and he repeated himself several times before Dan shook his head. "I'm not even hearing you come through, Shepard. Channels must be being jammed." That was a relief, at least. While being hit obviously wasn't fatal, they had made it thus far without being 'killed', a record he was keen to continue. "Jamming signal must be coming from each individual unit, I can't get a fix on any originating point." Dan was fiddling with the holographic controls of his omnitool as he spoke. Neither of them had spent much time with the devices, and it reflected in their abilities with them.

"Can we at least get a location on the squad?" Dan merely stared at him blankly as Shepard chuckled quietly. They would _really _have to take a look at the manuals next time the opportunity arose. "Just thought I'd ask."

A moment's worth of silence passed before he gestured to the other doors in the hallway. "These doors should let us flank them, let's get to it." _That_ they at least could do, and they moved to both sides of the door panel before a quick wave had the door sliding open. The breaching force hadn't been able to move much if at all, but they were still several meters past the door as Shepard and Dan leaned out from behind it, pistols out and ready. The rounds caught the Alliance trainers in the back, throwing them forward before their armour locked up as they were 'killed', and the pair of them stepped through the open doorway into the now foe-less room. Several of their fellow marines nodded to them before they turned to their own groups and omnitools as they approached the survivors.

"They've got a jamming signal up; any of you good with tech?" Dan spoke up as some of the marines turned to look at them. One of them turned towards them, and Shepard was surprised to see it was the same man that had helped him with the shield modulator.

The marine spoke quickly as he tapped in commands on the orange holograms of his omnitool. "I noticed that. Our individual suits don't have the kind of onboard power to get through the channels. You would need several power sources for your omnitool to feed from."

"Sure. What if take the units from their armour?" Shepard asked as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the unconscious trainers. The marine appeared to consider it briefly.

"Could work, they look like they might house a suitable powerful supply."

Shepard motioned for Dan to follow him as he stepped toward the locked armour suits. "We'll get them, you do whatever it is you have to do."

The power packs, it turned out, were tiny, and they were also embedded deep within the back panel of the armour. The result was an odd collection of armor plates all stacked to one side, thin wiring bridging the power sources buried within them. They flashed a brilliant blue as they began dumping power into his communications suite, and he keyed his squad channel. "Pat, Taylor, you up?"

"_Shepard! Christ, how'd you get through the jammer? Nevermind, we're up but pinned down by a shitload of fire in the D-Wing!_"

"Understood, we're on our way. Shepard out."

* * *

**February 26****th****, 2176  
****Elysium  
****11:00 Hours**

When he really thought about it, Shepard couldn't really understand why Elysium was such a popular planet; it was less than brisk, there was far too little gravity for his tastes, and it was chock full of businessmen and politicians. He supposed its only redeeming factor was –

"Hey Johnny!"

– Probably that.

The patter of rubber-soled shoes on the smooth, white stone pathway had met his ears well before the exclamations of the bubbling young girl had, even before she rounded the corner to the bridge he was sitting on the railing of. Far below his boots, a cold spring stream gurgled and frolicked, its currents carrying thin icicles from the mountain and beyond. Most of the land still lay deep in the grip of late winters breadth beneath a sky of fluffy white clouds on the blossoming scarlet and orange horizon, their underbellies cast with the golden yolk of Elysium's pale sun. Thin patches of drippy snow doted the grassy hills in front of him, a long winter by Earth's standards. He was not terribly fond of snow, which only made the slushy snowball that smacked against the side of his head that much more miserable.

"Hey, watch where you're throwing those!" His finger snaked out as he cleared his bare ear of the ungodly cold substance.

"You didn't say 'hi', _mister_." The girl who couldn't be any more than waist high to him pouted as she set her hands on her hips, as if her reasoning fully justified anything she had done.

Shepard chuckled and rolled his eyes as he turned to her. Ever since he 'rescued' her during a midnight operation, wild-eyed and frantic and caught in the middle of the firefight, the little girl had stuck to him like glue whenever she saw him.

"I was getting there, kid. It's early, shouldn't you be at school?"

The long black mop that was her hair bounced in the air as she heaved herself up next to him back first, swinging her short legs to let them dangle over the edge of the bridge like his. Sparkling green eyes met his for a moment before they became occupied digging away at the coarse granite the bridge was constructed of.

"Maybe. I saw you from my desk though, so I hit Timmy with spitballs until the teacher kicked me out." For an eleven year old, she was exceptionally devious. "Besides, I've already learned everything I need to know about math."

Shepard snorted not unkindly, as he could certainly remember saying the exact same thing when he was her age. Still, that was a long time ago. "Is that so? You must be a really smart girl."

Elena only tittered with glee. "Of _cooourse!_ That's what I've been _telling _you aaall this time." She fiddled with a small white flower as she spoke. "Besides, I _told _you, I want to be like you when I grow up!"

_There it was again – an indistinct scream, crying for help. He shook the ghost clear of his head, certain it was nothing more than his own memory haunting his perception. It happened a lot those days, flashes of scenes long since forgotten as he went about his day. Some were good, most were bad; flitting specters that drifted in and out of his dreams, sometimes a black hair woman that merely smiled at him. The occurrences were discomforting, to say the least._

_But he wasn't dreaming – was he? The dirt between the rubbery fingers of his gloves felt so real, the smoke and haze on the air even tasted like smouldering wreckage. He had had vivid dreams before, ones that would wake him in the middle of night, dripping in cold sweat and cursing some unknown entity. But this, the night around him felt so real, lit by the sporadic flashes of accelerator rifles and the glow of the burning prefab, even the weight of the weapon in his hand._

_There it was, again. A piteous cry arising from the darkness. He boosted the auditory pickups' sensitivity as he dropped behind the berm before him. More rounds impacted on his cover, the thin plumes of dirt that arose smouldering with the heat of incendiary rounds. His armour was stained with char and soot, armour plates barely visible under the shadowy streaks. A heartbeat later, and he was vaulting over the high berm, onto the open walkway and into the midst of constant fire. The rifle in the crook of his shoulder jolted as rounds poured from its muzzle, overloading and collapsing a vorcha's thin shields before they pounded mercilessly through the armour like tissue paper. Beside him was a selection of N6 marines, coordinated fire tearing through their opposition as they advanced upon their objective: a two story prefab housing a division of the illegal arms trade._

_He also knew that he was not alone in hearing it._

_On his flank, someone commented about the same cries he heard. 'Cry' somehow didn't justify it; it was more of a strangled sob than it was a cry. In the silence ensuing the firefight, it was clear – at least to him – that it originated from behind the low wall ahead of them. He was close enough to make out words then, laced with terror as the voice called for someone. Taking a breath and exchanging rifle for pistol, he steeled himself and hurdled over the waist-high wall with one hand on its surface. What he came face to face with was not quite what he expected: a young colonist, the wide green eyes visible to only him in the dim light, smudges of grease and ash streaked with tears on her cheeks above a raven sweep of dirty and knotted hair draped around one thin shoulder. But that was not what surprised him – it wasn't impossible for bystanders to be caught during a firefight – what surprised him was the disproportionately huge pistol, presumably taken from the dead vorcha several meters away, gripped in both of her small hands._

_She fired, the yawing muzzle barking as its ordnance streaked wildly around him. In a flash he holstered his sidearm, long strides closing the distance between them as a round clipped him in the shoulder before he managed to slide in on a knee and subdue the pistol in her grasp. She had been screaming all the while she fired, screaming even when the weapon was taken from her, screaming as the comparatively gargantuan gloved hands wrapped her own within their grip, the light pressure that radiated from them holding her still as consoling whispers echoed into her ears. The voice regulators' effects on the voice, mechanical and computerized, did little to tame unchecked apprehension, and she bawled as entrapped hands wrestled to free themselves. "Get away from me! You're one of... one of them!"_

_Behind him, a flash of streetlights illuminated her tear-stained face, and for one surreal moment he thought himself to be looking into the face of his youngest sister. But nay – he had visited his family's, even his own, grave site back on Earth during leave once. She was gone, but the similarities were striking, especially the eyes that were roving aimlessly over the solid opaque visor of his helmet._

_The muted hiss of environmental seals whispered into the night as he lifted the helmet over his head, white puffs of exhalation curling out into the chilly night as he did. Drawing off the heavy helmet, he set it down to the little girl's side, one hand still gently clasped in his own as the other wrapped around and pull the helmet towards her._

"_Hey, look at me. I'm not one of the bad guys, see?" Her eyes locked with his, and he hoped that she could see in the darkness as well as he could. It seemed to have some effect on her, as the wailing reduced to shuddering whimpers and slumped shoulders and her forehead fell against his chest plate._

"_W-what happened to t-them?" She hiccuped out as he instinctively pulled her closer. Young, alone, and witness to a dozen deaths, he knew she would never be the same, and part of him felt responsible for that._

"_Don't worry about them." He paused as the girl leaned her head onto his shoulder pauldron. One of the marines stood a respectful distance away, shifting his weight to either foot with unease. A short jerk of his head and he moved on into the prefab after the rest of the team, signaling his intent to stay behind. She would not be mentioned in the after action reports. "What's your name?" He asked when the others had left the area._

_She looked at him with tired eyes before responding in a voice equally as worn out. "Elena..." And with that, she passed out in Shepard's arms._

"_Hey!_ Don't ignore me _mister_." The half-serious pout on her face and the light shove woke Shepard from his retrospection, though he was barely shifted as she pushed on his arm.

His chest reverberated with quiet laughter as he shook his head. Somehow she had endured with barely a single memory of that night; indubiously for the best. "Sorry, was just thinking about something."

She seemed to consider this sentiment for a moment, eyes drifting to the sky as her lips pursed before shrugging and accepting it. "Hmph." A risen eyebrow prompted him to answer. _"Well? _What were you looking at?" She spoke as she dropped the flower in favor of heaving his helmet that was between them up onto her lap.

"Just the sky. "

"... Well, why were you looking at the sky?"

Shepard dropped his head in exaggerated defeat as the girl refused to let up. "I was just thinking about how weird it is to be on a different planet."

She seemed to regard him with some curiousity. "Where were you born, Johnny?"

He thought about it for a moment; technically he wasn't supposed to divulge anything about himself to anyone, _ever_. However, it didn't seem quite likely that little Elena was an enemy operative, and so he shrugged and began. "I was born on Earth. Little planet in the Sol system. We didn't have a lot of today's technology there, you see."

"You didn't have space ships?" She queried. "Or this?" She gestured his helmet that she was playing with.

"... Not really, no." His lips twitched before he continued. "We had combat gear, though." He was careful to stick to the fine line between truth and lies.

"Hm... Did you at least have air cars?" She looked back up at him. "I can't figure out how people got around without them, can you?"

He laughed merrily; on the inside, at least. Outwardly, he was a mask of genuine-appearing curiousity – barring his eyes, as he'd never been able to control what shone in them – as he 'pondered' the question before brushing it off. "Beats me, Elena. We were a small community, we didn't really need air cars." A wistful sigh escaped his lips. "Everyone felt like family there. But now, it seems it's all business."

"You miss them, don't you? Your family ?" It was hardly a question.

In truth, he both did and didn't. While he had never seen eye-to-eye with his parents, family was family, and he hadn't forgotten that. Of his friends, most were in the Corps with him, so it wasn't so bad. "A little. My sister was about your age when I left, I think she took it the hardest."

"When did you leave?"

"Feels like a lifetime ago, let's put it that way." He skirted the question with practiced ease. "You sure ask a lot of questions."

She giggled as she resumed toying with the helmet. "I want to be a soldier." She stated, the previous subject dropping without a second thought.

It was several moments before she spoke again. "Why are you still in this?" A small fist knocked on the paneled dome of his shoulder pauldron.

_A fair question_. Over the course of training it had become like a second skin to him, not to mention the ease of having a pump for his antibiotics on his back. A hundred and fifty years and it still wasn't cured, though that was supposed to change sometime soon according to Chakwas. "I don't really know, actually. Beats being out in the cold I guess." He shrugged as he turned towards her. "Plus, it makes me look more intimidating."

"It's also really stinky." She replied sourly as she gingerly lifted it to her head. The fit was loose at first, but internal pressure pockets swelled to fit her significantly smaller skull, thought it did little for the appearance. Her mouth came a little higher than was normal, the low jaw-piece swooping down under her chin, but her eyes and nose lined up well enough. "So _this _is what it's like." He could picture what she was seeing in his mind's eye: The subtle tint of the visor, an empty heat indicator for weapon heatsinks, the small communications channel indicator in the top right, perhaps even the environmental statistics menu if she opened it. She was quiet, though, and so he let her mess around with it.

"Johnny," He lazily shook his head again. Why she had taken to calling him 'Johnny' – which wasn't even his name – when most people referred to him by his surname was beyond understanding. "What does... pry... pry-or-ih-tee one mean?"

That certainly got his attention. "Excuse me?"

"It says pry-or-ih-tee one in here!"

"Mind if I take a look?" Externally, he was calm as ever. Internally, his mind was racing; priority one transmissions were almost never used simply because most situations never required any higher than two or three. Overhead a large freighter broke through the skyline, its distant silhouette speeding down towards the surface somewhere due east of them.

Elena struggled with the helmet briefly, the oversized pressure pockets pulling on her hair before she dropped it in Shepard's outstretched hands. A moment later the latches were sealing with his armour with muted hisses as he keyed the transmission and his helmet filled with static and the sounds of gunfire.

"_This is Captain Remus speaking. At ten-fifty hours military time, a flotilla of slaver ships entered the Vetus system and headed straight for Elysium. Planetary anti-ship lasers are offline, repeat, planetary __defense grid is offline. All Alliance units are hereby commanded to escort civilians to shelters and establish defensive perimeters for – Oh god!"_

A massive explosion rocked the air followed by several subsequent detonations, and both Shepard and Elena whipped their head around to the source as the latter stifled a gasp. Half a mile away, thin wisps of black smoke rose from the heart of the city's Alliance command. An intense feeling of dread dropped in the pit of his stomach as he swung his legs back onto the walkway, and deep down he knew the chances of many getting out alive were slim. His omnitool suddenly blipped orange, and he quickly opened the communication channel between the rest of his unit as urgent voices flooded his helmet.

"_Shepard, you seein' this? HQ just got blown to hell! There's goddamned batarians and vorcha everywhere!"_

"Taylor! What's your status?" Below him, Elena shifted nervously on the balls of her feet.

"_Holding_, _Shepard, but only barely. We're heading to the refugee center, see if we can help there!"_

Breaking into a jog, he pulled her hand to make sure the little girl was following him before he spoke again. "Understood. I'll be there in..." He consulted the map for a route length. "Around ten minutes if we don't run into trouble. Leave this channel up, and I'll see you soon."

"_Roger that, hurry your ass up Shepard. It's not looking good here._" It didn't _sound _good either, and he could hear the chatter of assault rifles and other small weapons in the background before the transmission ended.

Behind him, he could hear the patter of Elena's shoes as she ran after him. _Damn it, she should have stayed in class. _He shook it off; should have's, could have's, they didn't matter at this point.

* * *

**February 26****th****, 2176  
****Illyria  
****11:42 Hours**

"Well, you took your time. Any trouble along the way?" A man in equally darkened and battered armour asked as they passed through the civilian checkpoint leading to the concrete shelter. In his hands was a standard Avenger rifle, though the hardpoints on his suit were laden with other small arms.

"Good to see you Dan. Couple slavers a few minutes behind us," Shepard jerked a thumb over his shoulder as he caught the pistol that was tossed his way. "Apart from that not much. We got a lift with one of those Makos. Turns out you were right; riding topside isn't as much fun as it looks."

A solitary chuckle escaped Dan's mouth as he watched his squad leader part ways with the little girl that had followed him in. She seemed a bit more than reluctant to go, but in the end a sweet, if somewhat panicky, couple took her by the hand and lead her inside. "Who's the kid?" He asked as the two of them and a handful of marines rallied to the chokepoint.

"I'll tell you after, long story. She's a tough one though." Shepard spoke as he peeked into one of the drab supply crates, scooping out a bandolier of disk-shaped grenades and examining the rest of their equipment. "No rifles?" Dan's shaking head confirmed it, and he looked down at the pistol in his hands; standard issue Predator sidearm, high capacity but relatively weak power, though as a side result it had extremely manageable recoil. Still, not exactly the ideal weapon for the situation. "Who's on the other side of this compound?"

"Taylor and Pat are holed up over there. Probably real cozy too, I'm pretty sure I saw a few of those mounted heavy cannons on their end." Dan muttered as he peered intently through a pair of spotting scope. "Heads up, handful of vorcha headed this way. Should be easy picking for sniper rifles."

Looking down at the pistol in his hands, he reminded himself that all he could do was let the opposing force know they were waiting for them; he suddenly wished he had a few of those mounted turrets Dan had mentioned. A wishful sigh escaped his lips as Dan and a fellow marine began loosing volleys of precise sniper fire into the quickly-thinning ranks of oncoming vorcha. It wasn't that he was bloodthirsty, rather it was extremely uncomfortable doing nothing in a firefight.

The vorcha at least had enough brain points between them to split up and take cover after the first handful of shots rang out and reduced them to a measly twenty or so, though the thin plating of the grounded aircars they hid behind were hardly able to refuse the hyper-accelerated particle rifles, and they tore holes through metallic carapaces. They neared cautiously, the more overeager of the group sprinting and wildly waving their guns before they were cut down by an even barrage of automatic weapons fire from the marines. Countless rounds were clean misses, but a healthy number of the rounds impacted on flesh, the energy of them buzzing like angry wasps as they did. He briefly considered loosing a few rounds from his pistol before a single low whistle slipped from Dan's lips as the last vorcha took an armour-piercing round through the gut, a clean through and through that left a half-dollar sized hole in its torso before it sank to the ground.

A few of the younger colonial marines took to a cheer at their victory, though Dan and Shepard only shook their heads. "They were only seeing what kind of firepower we have." Came Dan's observation, and a grim nod was his only response.

* * *

"_They've got krogan!"_

The pistol in Shepard's hands flashed brilliantly as the heatsink flung out on an arm, the small honeycomb cylinder of palladium-coated silver venting fumes as it did. He swore as he brought it down, vainly shaking it while priming a grenade in his off hand. It soared out, slicing through the air before the adhesive backing glued itself to the breastplate of the charging krogan. A flash of sparks and a plume of black smoke and shrapnel erupted on the giant lizard-like bipedal, and it stumbled a couple of steps as if only _dazed _by the powerful grenade as the body shields snapped out of existence.

At that time, the heat meter on his heads-up display had dropped to sufficient levels, and he folded the heatsink back into place before pouring fire into the krogans scaly hide. A burst of red hot fire rushed from the beast's shotgun before it tumbled into death, the rounds zipping over his shoulder and catching a private full in the chest. The man's shields flared once before collapsing, needle like rounds digging into his armour as hollow screams issued from the mouthpiece, and the odor of burning flesh filled the air as he burned from the inside out – incendiary rounds were cruel like that.

Leveling sights to eyes, Shepard snapped a smattering of rounds into a close vorcha, its weak shields rippling once before collapsing and leaving it vulnerable to the hosing Dan's rifle gave it. He stepped back as he hurled another grenade into a group of approaching mercenaries, before turning foot and scooping the dead private's shotgun. Lifeless eyes were wide behind the glass visor, lips wretched in a silent scream as tendrils of smoke drifted from perforated armour joints.

"_Shepard! _There's more inbound!" Dan's shouts called him away from the smouldering corpse, and he turned and unloaded a single-handed shotgun into a mercenary that had gotten _far _too close. The shell burst caught the figure in the abdomen and picked him up off his feet, landing a close distance away as Shepard dropped down behind cover. 'Cover' was relative; it was little more than a waist-high stack of ordnance crates that he was lucky hadn't already exploded.

Somewhere near the shelter, anti-ship lasers whirred to life, tracking something above the clouds and spewing sickly yellow rounds into the sky. The sharp claps of anti-air fire thundered over sounds of close combat, the display of power affording the withered defenders of the shelter a modicum of time to push the rushing enemy back. Above, the decayed hull of some scrappy-looking ship burned through the air trailing black smoke as the atmosphere ate away at the thick peeling metal. The defense turrets didn't even bother with the scrap, turning to focus on some greater threat as it broke apart and scattered over the city.

Shepard took stock of the situation; just the two of them and three marines, a collection of small arms and a single crate of grenades were left. Outside of their perimeter, bloodthirsty vorcha and batarians and krogan were stomping up a frenzy, the pale concrete, charred and cratered, shaking underneath their feet. The hiss of suit pumps added to the cacophony of noise, as medigel was bled onto an open and bloody wound. A shot had cut along the soft of the pressure suit below his shoulder when his shields went down, leaving a long swathe of material and flesh missing as it cut through a full centimeter deep. It glazed over and numbed as the gel went to work, and the added stimulants coursed through his veins. For a moment, he considered patching up a few of the gashes left in his armour by hot shrapnel, but refrained when an alarm chimed in his helmet for low omnigel reserves.

Refrained, at least, until he saw the condition of the other marines. "Dan." The man approached as he too mended a thick gouge in his armour. "I want you to go through this place and scavenge any supplies you find, especially gels. We're going to need it soon." He waved off the man's protests, instead sending him off with a solemn salute before the man took off towards the shelter. Things weren't looking up.

He looked over the scene again. They were holed up in the depths of what was essentially a massive concrete alcove that led to the descending tubular tunnel ten meters back. Down that tunnel was the shelter. Fifteen meters ahead marked the end of the alcove, which served as an inconvenient limit to their vision and allowed a garrisoning point for the bands of slavers and pirates that were throwing themselves at them, even as they forced to trample over their own kinds bodies. At the very least they had decent cover amidst the checkpoint booths (which reminded him much of old highway tollbooths) and supply crates they had dragged out. Their positioning allowed them to hold the zone as a highly effective chokepoint, but their numbers would not hold alone.

"You good private?" A young man who looked like he had just gotten out of boot looked up at him from his seat against a barrier. His eyes were practically closed with weariness, having been fighting the bloody battle since early morning until then, the sun peaking well past midday. A beaten up old assault rifle lay across his legs, fingers wrapped loosely about the dark pistol-grip.

He seemed to shake his head. "I... I think so. Maybe. Just tired is all."

"Seems there's no rest for the weary." Shepard clapped the private's shoulder pauldron, a small smile plastered on his grimy face that didn't reach his eyes. Thunder rumbled over head, and he looked towards the patch of sky he could actually see. _Odd. There's not a storm cloud in sight. _The agitated stamping the invaders had started increased to a frenzy. "Looks like we're in for a fight."

As soon as he spoke, he saw what seemed like dozens of vorcha sweeping around the edges of the alcove, and the line immediately exploded into furious fire. Raising a scavenged rifle, he laid on the trigger and round after round hit home with fleshy thumps. One vorcha, seeming to think it was tougher than the rest, doubled its sprint towards the line, leaping over bodies as it did. It might have made it, had it not been for a well-timed shotgun blast that hurled it back towards its compatriots in a blaze, whom seemed to shrink away from the fire. At that moment, his rifle undid itself as it dispensed a cloud of dissipated heat that washed over his face, procuring sweat to bead down and pool into his eyes.

In the moment of blurry vision, a thin vorcha slipped the line and leaped onto his upper body, weapons apparently forgotten. His own rifle was knocked clean from his hands, skipping over the ground and bashing against a wall as the alien leaned in with its teeth. He saw yellowed and razor sharp, and they were far too close for his liking. A shift of footing had him turning on the spot and slamming the vorcha against the wall, even as it clawed at his armour, before Shepard's eyes settled on red-banded grenades hung loosely from the thing's sash, marked with the telltale sign of a single flame. He realized, then: _Vorcha do _not _like fire._

He let go of the thick arm only to crush the activation spoon on the grenade, grunting as sharp claws dug into his forearm. Willing up a burst of adrenaline, he whipped around to face the line before heaving the thing back into charging enemy. It didn't seem to realize what happened, and stood to move before it burst into vicious and hungry flames. Nearby fellow pirates stood in shock before the fires licked up their minimal armour, and flames found hold on their mottled flesh. Their kin seemed to respond in kind, leaping back from the raging inferno as it ate away at their bodies, the wretched screams of the burning filling the tunnel.

The temporary respite was all too quickly shaken – literally. Earthquake-like tremors resounded through the ground, and Shepard found himself thrown to the ground as the sounds of shearing metal and crumbling concrete filled the air. Even the vorcha stumbled, the quaking hitting them equally unexpected. The thick roof above them fissured slightly, small cracks snaking through the concrete before the tumbling ceased. He pushed himself up with the help of both hands, legs shaking even past the events cessation. One of the privates was helping the other two up, all of them standing on quivering legs as they double-checked their limbs to ensure their continued existence.

He gave his helmet a good solid whack in vain attempt to clear the dizziness that prevailed. "Marines... Let's mop them up!" With sight that barely stayed still, he brought up his pistol and began firing rounds in the still-dazed vorcha.

"_Shepard! Jesus fucking Christ, the entire south entrance is gone!_" That caught him by surprise.

The chatter of assault rifles threatened to overwhelm his radio. "Dan, calm down. What do you mean gone?"

"_I mean something just wiped it out! I went to get some heavy ordnance, the entire entrance caved in!"_

A pit formed in his stomach as he realized what had happened; the debris from the starship had found its mark amongst the city. "... Can you raise Pat or Taylor?" His voice was flat, lifeless as he knew his team was.

"_... Negative, Shepard._" Though he was prepared for it, it nonetheless hit him hard. _Two left..._

The vorcha had been flushed from the alcove – momentarily, he knew – but something worse still chilled him to the core.

"Johnny!"

_No... Why now!?_

She looked almost prideful for a moment, like the face of a child looking to impress. "_Elena! _What are _doing _out here?! It's not safe, get back inside!" He knew the tone of his voice would not be lost on her, and he used it to his advantage.

Elena was taken aback, diminutive form wrenched in horror at the blood-stained and ashen-faced man in front of her, but some resolve formed in her spine. "The man down there said he needed a messenger and I was the only one who could fit through the tunnel!"

_Fit through the tunnel? What? _A glimpse down the descending pathway confirmed it; the ceiling had collapsed somewhere near the center, thick slabs of concrete and spikes of rebar blocking most of the pathway.

"And, he said you could use these!" At that, she thrust forward a small metal box as she opened it. Inside, small plastic injectors of medigel and omnigel were stacked on racks, the clear and silvery substances quivering slightly with the rumbles around them as she relayed the man's message to him. He had already received the information earlier from Dan, though, so he stopped her midsentence.

He took them wordlessly as he kneeled in front of her, furious that someone would send a _kid _into danger yet equally proud of her bravery. "I need you to get moving now, Elena. Get back inside, find a man named Dan. He's got big armour like I do, you'll recognize him." He patted her shoulder. "Get going now."

Elena hovered hesitantly on the spot, rooted both with terror and a will to help despite her youth. It was only a gentle push and the sight of a stomping krogan that fueled her short legs into the tunnel. Shepard turned to the line again, stepping forward quickly as he brought his shotgun to bear and fired once, twice, three times into the neck and head of the lead krogan. Armoured so lightly, it crumpled under the withering shells before being trampled by their raging brethren.

"Pour it on mar – !" His breath left him as a krogan fist connected with his abdomen like a battering ram, throwing him against the wall with overwhelming force. Vital signs went wild as he felt several ribs crumple under the heavy metal gauntlet, and he brought his shotgun to bear as a scaly claw gripped around his neck only to find it was no longer in his hands. Blackness ebbed into the edges of his vision as he stared down into the wild krogans yellow-green eyes before he looked towards the marines. One of them was slouched against the wall, head keeled over his chest as blood dribbled over cracked lips. The other two were circling the remaining krogan as they fired burst after burst into its hide, before a wild kick caught one of them full in the face. Even from there he heard the telltale sound of bones snapping in the marine's neck and knew he would not be standing up. Vision almost faded, he witnessed the last marine pull up his shotgun to fire pointblank into the beasts face milliseconds before a similar blast took him in the stomach.

In the corner of his eye, he saw the huddled form of Elena half-around the corner of the tunnel, and some deep energy stirred within him. Summoning final reserves of strength, his open hand clasped around the familiar rubberized grip of his pistol, and he jammed the muzzle full against a gap in the shoulder armour of the krogan before hammering on the trigger. Its grip weakened, but did not fail, and more rounds tore into the meaty lizard. He heard the gasp of the heatsink as it vented plasma build up, but did not see it through the blackness. All hope seemed lost, and he felt himself resign to his fate.

And then the claw slipped away, and the krogan fell over, dead with two dozen rounds in it.

Shepard hit the ground, hard, and he inhaled the most glorious breath he felt he'd ever take in his life, a steady pull of smokey air tinged with the scent of burning flesh. Slowly, he propped himself onto his hands, knees pulling in weakly as he crawled forward. "_Elena!_" Something seeped into his muscles as he triggered the medigel dispenser in his suit, the stimulants sufficing for actual strength as he stood on wobbly legs, one arm clutched to a bullet wound in his side. "_Elena!_"

"I'm sorry Johnny, there's stuff blocking the way! I couldn't get through!" The panic in her voice was well and truly pronounced now, and with the pit reforming in his stomach he cast a cursory glance back to the tunnel; collapsed. Blocked. _No... _"Johnny I'm scared! I wanna go home!" Tears slowly spilled down her bright cheeks.

The little girl collapsed into his arms, sobbing openly into the dirty and battered chest plate. "I just... – _hick!_ – wanna go home! – _hick!_"

He was reminded strongly of the time they had met, a scared girl in the darkness that stretched to every corner of the world. "I know. I know." A deep breath settled in his lungs. "We're going home, Elena." The slaver group outside was building itself into a frenzy once more, and his own resolve flickered to life as theirs grew, and a quick movement had his helmet in his hand. She reminded him so much of his younger sister, the one he would never see again; he would be damned if he couldn't protect her too.

"Elena, look at me. Remember this? Put it on, it's going to make you strong and tough, like me." The girl's form shuddered for a moment as the sobs stifled momentarily. "Might be a bit stinky though." He added as a wistful afterthought.

"But don't you – _hick!_ – need it?" Concern flooded her eyes as she looked up at him.

He shook his head numbly. At that point, the helmet was stifling and heavy; it would do him no good. Her short fingers wrapped around the jawbone of the helmet, and he helped her lift it over her head as the cushions inside swelled to meet the form of her skull. The corners of her mouth haltingly turned up, a small smile gracing her face, and he returned it wholly as he tucked a lock of black hair under the helmet. Her face was suddenly hidden from view as he keyed a switch on the underside rim of the helmet, the EVA shields snapping into place and the visor darkening automatically.

"Johnny? – _hick!_ – What did you do?"

Beneath him, the ground shook even harder, and he scooped up his pistol as he turned her around and pushed her towards the corner. "Go! Hide, Elena!"

Boots slapped against the ground as he brought his pistol to bear, rounds finding their mark in the frenzied enemy. His offhand found the fallen shotgun of a marine, and it too barked loudly into the fray. Few of the foe even bothered to shoot, but his shields still fizzled and popped under the strain of those that did. With a final crackle, they winked out of existence and his body jerked as a round was caught in his chest plate. More pounded into his thigh, and he collapsed to the ground as strength was sapped from his joints. The light of the sun came full into view, then, and the polarized visor darkened to compensate as he fell fully to the ground. Behind him, something cracked off the wall, and he once again resigned himself to death as his omnitool rushed meaningless words to his ears.

But it was not meant to be.

The sound of angry wasps filled the alcove as the hover-jet dumped hundreds of rounds into the charging mass, bullets punching through shields and armour like wet tissue paper as they cut swathes through the crowd. A mercenary human toppled lifelessly over his legs. No screams issued from the pirates – they died too quickly to feel pain, instead they keeled over in droves.

"_Shepard!_" His omnitool called out again. "_Shepard!_"

Blood seeped from smoking holes in his armour as he weakly pushed the man entrapping his legs off. His breath came ragged, guttural, and he coughed blood from some internal wound as he pushed himself back up for what felt like the hundredth time.

"Joh... Johnny."

Fiery spikes of pain radiated from his body as the name spurred energy to his limbs. He blinked once, twice before his vision cleared sufficiently to see. Ahead, men were disembarking from the hover-jet and moving to secure the entrance. He dropped his head, straining his eyes to see beneath his arm and to the corner where Elena would be. But she wasn't there.

_No!_ And suddenly he knew what had happened. He knew what that crack he had heard was, and it pained him to look to the other corner.

There, slouched against the wall, looking tinier than ever before in her short life, was Elena.

"- _hick!_ – Johnny..."

Blood pounded in his ears as pure rage overtook his mind, throwing himself headlong into a staggered jog. He had to get to her. He could save her; he had to.

"_Elena!_" His own voice sounded foreign to him, wrought in anger and anguish as he reached her, stepping over the dead vorcha that had thrown her. The helmet moved weakly under her own power. "Elena, stay with me Elena." His torn and burnt glove wrapped around the helmet as he keyed the EVA shield to retract, and the soft greens of her eyes met the stone cold blue of his once more.

"I wanted... I wanted – _hick!_ – to be a... – _hick!_ – a soldier." Her whisper barely carried over the voices of the advancing marines.

_No. No, no _no_. Not her. _Another surge of power flowed through his body, and one arm moved under her diminutive legs as he effortlessly lifted her to his chest before standing. His wounded leg threatened to give out, wobbling like jelly as he put pressure on it and stepped towards the hover-jet. The sun that had blinded him earlier did so again, and for a moment he could barely see past his feet. The dirt and ash that had taken hold in every nook and cranny and every gaping fissure and crack in his armour seemed darker in the blinding light. Below the melted edges of his gloves, he could see his own flesh, bright red and burnt. Blood dripped from a long gash at his hairline, flowing freely over black and dirty skin and around dried sanguineous channels in the stubble beard that plagued his chin.

But none so took him like the tiny figure in his arms. His own helmet, cracked and dented, the paint chipped and worn in a dozen places, stared back at him as her head lolled about feebly in the nook of his elbow. The blood from his head tainted the bright, though begrimed yellow shirt she wore, and she was missing one muddy sneaker. Her eyelids squeezed shut behind the visor before going limp, and he found himself voicelessly calling for her.

And then there was another hand, and another as some fresh-faced medic pulled him from her arms. He fought for a second, before a thin needle found its way to a nearly-ruined injection port. Blackness ebbed into his vision as another set of arms wrapped about his chest, and he called for her once more before slipping away completely.

* * *

**March 10****th****, 2176  
****Arcturus Station  
****17:30 Hours**

"They want to give him a medal, you know."

Admiral Hackett hardly acknowledged he had heard the younger commander, instead turning to face the extranet feed of a woman in tight slacks as she spoke mutely. Behind her, parts of Illyria smouldered as reconstructive efforts went up all around the city. A civilian shelter filled the screen, one end caved in under the weight of a derelict hull, the other blackened and bruised as soldiers filed in and out of it.

His deep voice broke the silence. "Do they have a name yet?"

"No, we extracted him before news crews could arrive on scene. Some of the other soldiers might have recognized him though." Commander Anderson spoke truthfully.

"Let's keep it that way then." He didn't miss the nearly imperceptible shift of disappointment in the commander's stance. "At least for now. Shepard's unstable at best, the last thing he needs is the media bringing attention to him."

The commander paused briefly before nodding once. "... I understand, admiral. What about the parliament? They're itching to pin the Star of Terra on someone, but they don't know who."

Admiral Hackett seemed to weigh the options in his mind, eyes frozen on the viewport from his quarters. From his position, he could see most of the ring that provided the station's gravity, and the shipyards beyond. "They didn't seem like the type to care for medals when I met them, commander. I'm sure they won't mind missing this one as well."

Anderson seemed to double-take at that. "Sir, it's the _Star of Terra_. That's one helluva decoration."

"And believe me, after what he went through, I'd pin the damn thing on him myself." Admiral Hackett took a deep breath, powerful chest fluctuating despite his apparent age. "However, as much as I would like to I can't. Some day, there will come a time when they are thrust into the limelight. It's our job to put that day off as long as possible."

The commander nodded stiffly after a moments hesitation. He did not agree with the actions being taken, or rather those not being taken, but respected the admiral's decision nonetheless; especially considering he'd rather not have to make them himself. "Understood, sir. Is it safe to assume they will be taking over their units operations tasking?"

The admiral mulled the words over in his head. 'Operations tasking', a fancy way of addressing a plethora of surgical strikes against foes of the Alliance, namely vorcha and batarian pirate groups and slaving rings. They had harboured an intense dislike for humanity, in particular the Alliance, ever since its first forays into new systems. In particular, they had practically come undone when humanity began colonizing the Skyllian Verge. Ever since, they had been a splinter in the Alliance's foot.

"Yes." He responded finally. "Get them reading into the recent operational history of their unit, and check on the salarians progress on those infection samples we sent them."

"Already have, sir. The results haven't looked terribly promising so far, but they're confident they can do it." The salarians were galaxy-renowned for their scientific prowess – if _they _couldn't, there was little hope of ever getting rid of the infection permanently.

The commander took the silence as an invitation. "He asked when he was going back into cryo-sleep. Seemed to be looking forward to it."

Admiral Hackett smirked in response before turning to the younger officer. "That's because he doesn't know what he's fighting for anymore. He'll be reckless, at best." He seemed to shrug off a heavy load before continuing. "Start the cryo-sleep again. We'll wake them when we have word on new operations."

* * *

_(Hello ladies and gents. Wanted to make one solid push towards the Mass Effect timeline, and I suppose this was my 'best' attempt. Proof read it once or twice, but errors have most likely escaped my notice. If you're curious about the title, I recommend you Google search it. It's really a fantastic piece, though I'm of mixed feeling if it really fits with this chapter.)_


	9. Chapter X: Anything Can Happen

**January 19th, 2183  
****Crescent Cluster  
****1240 Earth Time  
****Above an Unidentified Ice World**

"How we doing, Dan?"

"Not so bad." Came the reply. "We're on course, light-drives should drop us roughly one hundred meters from our objective." Dan seemed to weigh an internal strife before replying cheekily. "... That is, if you haven't screwed with them too much."

Shepard snorted in response; bastard had been hounding him over his 'hobby' nearly every second of their mission. "I didn't. There's no sense in letting primary transducers run below spec, anyhow, and the few tweaks I gave to the field-arraying grids is _exactly _what's allowing us to exit so close to them." Satisfied with his response, he settled back in his seat, eying the bands and meters that occupied the terminal readout on their small ship.

Dan merely stared at the back of his head blankly. "... Are you a marine, or an engineer?"

"Bit of both, I suppose." He smiled at the term; back on Earth, literally hundreds of years ago, he had more or less studied for the types of opportunities only now afforded to him. The military and its projects had taken... _everything _from him, from all of them, but it had also given rise to new opportunities. Perhaps, if ever he was allowed to retire, he'd find solace in that. "Keep in mind this _marine _still carries enough firepower to knock you on your ass." He added as he patted the relatively standard Avenger rifle magnetized to his back.

"Yeah, yeah. Brass would have a fit if they knew what you do to that poor thing."

Shepard threw up his hands in mock defense, shielding himself from his friends commentary. He had taken the liberty of replacing some of the weapons tech – namely its old capacitance structures – with newer carbon ring units, whose effects had manifested quite notably according to his calculations. Normally he would have an actual weapons engineer do the work for him, but they had been on their own for several weeks, and the opportunity didn't exactly materialize like he had hoped it would. "I don't know what you're talking about." He deadpanned, lasting only moments before the facade cracked into a lopsided half-grin.

A rather neutral tone sounded in the cabin as a timer began its final minute, its single chime rippling lazily. "_Approaching destination._" The on-board virtual intelligence 'spoke'. To Shepard, it reminded him quite a bit of the older GPS units they used to use in cars, but such recollections felt like a lifetime ago.

"You heard the lady, Shepard, lock and load!" Dan called out as he rose from his copilot chair, much to Shepard's general annoyance; the weapons they used didn't _have _a bolt to lock and load, something he greatly missed about older tech. Nonetheless, he checked the swingarm-supported heatsink on the short -barreled submachine gun as he stood, absentmindedly reaching for the discarded helmet on the command console. Latches hissed and tightened on ridges as the EVA helmet sealed to the neck of his armour, power flowing into it as the heads-up display winked on. A dim blue chevron blinked once over Dan's figure as he leaned against the arch near the exit hatch with his equipment already set.

"What do you think it'll be this time? Krogan? Asari?" The man shrugged as he delved on it. "Wouldn't mind that, actually, as long as they're not shooting at me."

"Not likely; root ship registries were written in Vorchan. Their language is almost as ugly as they themselves are." It was true; the language was a mass of sharp lines and blotchy dots, but it was mostly that the words somehow managed to always translate into something that sounded plain vile. As a result, he had practically forgotten what little he knew of the language entirely, perfectly content with never using it in his lifetime.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. A man can dream, though."

Shepard shook his head as he chuckled. "What a character."

"_Arriving at reference point alpha. Proximity alert: stationary vessel nearby. Executing program '_sierra-zero-two_'. Airlock pressurizing._" The computer intoned.

Without a word, the two filed into the fairly spacious airlock as they holstered their weapons. The door behind them sealed shut before those in front of them opened with a _pop _of rushed decompression. Behind his mask, he smiled widely – he found the zero-gee excursions he got to go on so often quite entertaining. Feeling weightless was a remarkable experience, one he thoroughly enjoyed as he pushed off the hull and out of the hatch. Latched to his back plate was a small chemical thruster pack, and it was on this that small exhaust ports opened as navigational thrusters corrected the course to the foreign ship – _Clotilde _was painted in faded black script on its side.

With almost exaggeratedly slow movements, he pointed towards a beveled circle on the hull._"Mag-boots on, start cutting through that access hatch._"

Dan went about his task wordlessly, bringing up a device that looked not unlike an oversized and blocky pistol before pressing its muzzle against the locks that would ordinarily keep them out. A brilliant flash of blue energy washed over the hull before it began melting through the barred locks. They lasted only a few seconds before the manhole-like cover eased open, and the pair drifted down the empty tube.

"_Think they know we're here?_" Dan asked boredly.

"_Most likely... In fact,_" He reached to a pair of semi-solid blocks on his equipment pack – breaching charges. "_I was kind of counting on it._"

The detonation was mostly silent on their side, an echo of a blast in the mute of space. For the group of pirates whom had suffered death from near-instantaneous depressurization – not to mention the explosion – on the other side, it had probably been quite loud. If Shepard felt any discomfort as he came to a landing near the bloated purple body of an asphyxiated vorcha, he didn't show it, and continued to the bay doors. A bubble of mass effect shields would hold what little atmosphere was left inside the hull while preventing similar happenings along the rest of the ship, and the door eased open to a short hall.

The pirates lying in wait were either particularly cowardly or serving as an irritating distraction, but bursts of well-placed fire took them through their shields either way.

"_Dan, tap in and get a scan going for the bridge. I'm going to see if anyone else is on this tub._"

The pair split, Dan searching for the nearest terminal and Shepard branching off to another doorway as the shotgun in his hands extended. Above the sealed frame were markings – chicken scratch, really – that his heads-up display translated into words indicating it to be an an equipment room; _Exactly what I was looking for _he thought_._ Logic would dictate that the crew would seek means of fending off boarders, and if the hushed whispers and grating voices on the other side of the door were any indication, his logic was sound.

He reached for the door switch, keying it before leaning well back of the open entrance. Dozens of rounds spewed through the opening before whoever was shooting had realized there was no assailant there, and on cue he heard the mute exhaustion of overused heatsinks as their fire came to a halt. He smirked as he stepped out and into the doorway, quickly closing the distance to a suitable rack of military-looking ration cans as he fired. A double shotgun burst caught a wild-eyed vorcha dead in its tracks, the gory carcass tumbling limp to the ground as its fellows opened fire. Half a dozen pistol rounds bounced off his shields as the hand-cannon boomed, its report tolling like a massive gong.

Another smattering of rounds buried themselves deep within the gunmetal gray of the shelf, and he leaned out to let loose another hail of flechettes from an under-slung barrel on the shotgun. The tiny darts found their mark in the anguished visage of a rushing batarian, whom crumpled on the floor clawing at his four perforated eyes before another blast took him from his misery. He noted, with some discomfort, that his cover was quickly deteriorating and was also the _last _available cover to him, and he poured more rounds into a pair of oncoming pirates with renewed vigor.

Until, that is, a grenade arced and stuck to the bulkhead opposite his exposed self. The blast put a hefty gouging into the already-marred surface as he leapt out from behind cover, tucking his body into a roll before bringing his gun up. A vorcha closed the distance surprisingly quickly, its thick and awkwardly-curved shins propelling it forward with practiced speed.

They slammed together in a violent grapple, armoured gloves crushing in upon bared wrists as knees hammered into his abdomen. What they lacked in general tactical prowess, vorcha made up for in sheer, frantic determination. He loosened his grip on its wrists as it snarled in his face, bringing his boot down upon one thick ankle and collapsing his hands onto the spiky scalp of the vorcha. Sickly crunches filled the air as he brought his limbs and hands together, hammering the ugly face into his outstretched knee once, twice. A batarian moved to line a shot up over his comrades heaving back before a combination of Shepard's pistol and Dan's submachine gun riddled him with holes. The rest of the pirates in the bay immediately turned to engage the newcomer, only to be tossed apart as multiple grenades spat shrapnel from their feet to a chorus of wounded howls.

A calloused fist connected with Shepards helmet, the jawbone taking most of the impact but still snapping his head about. He blinked stars away – he hadn't seen it coming, for all his training. Odd.

Another offhand punch whistled in before his own gauntlet clamped about its forearm, twisting his body in to effortlessly throw his assailant over his shoulder. The vorcha reacted quickly, rolling with only the slightest delay as it regrouped its bearings. That was enough of an opportunity for him, and he leaped into action, a steady barrage of punches landing in the aliens thin gut. Temporarily dazed, its head snapped to the side as his fist landed squarely on what he assumed was its ear, his other hand closing about its throat as he slammed it to the wall.

If nothing else, vorcha were _determined._

_All the more reason to put them down without a second's hesitation_, the thought echoed inside Shepard's head as his armoured gauntlet crushed in on what passed for a vorcha's windpipe. It kicked feebly against the wall it was pinned to, head bashing the metal bulkhead and exacerbating its ending. There was a panicked light in its eyes, something he found a small part of him was reveling in, and a gurgle arose from its throat as his hand jerked hard to the side; the resounding crack of the creature's neck sounded off dimly overhead the corpses of kindred as it slumped down the wall to meet them.

Boots clumped on the paneled floor meters away. "_Dan. Got a location from the navbanks?_"

"_Yeah, got a hit on an asteroid belt this tub's been to a couple of times._" The larger of the two surveyed the hall's floor, littered with the dead of a half-dozen pirates and slavers as he responded. "_Little scummy hub called Omega._"

He nodded satisfactorily while checking his sidearm's heatsink, the device fringed in a heated red, as he stepped over the slumped vorcha. The pistol clacked against one of the magnetic pads hosted on his armour, holstered as the pair made their way out of the equipment room. The ship, crewed by a meager compliment of vorcha, batarians, even humans, had been tracked all the way to the Crescent Cluster. It was, by then, emptied of its cargo of implanted slaves, but they had taken the liberty of making sure it was emptied of _everything_.

Behind him, Dan's boot scuffed against something metallic and heavy. "_Uhh... Shepard, the hell is this?_"He prodded at what appeared to be a three-clawed hand, thick white strips backed by dark gray running down the digits' length. A heavy tarpaulin blanketed the rest of the figure, and Shepard slowly leaned down to drag it off, his other hand supporting the shotgun he carried.

"_I... Don't know._" Shepard blanked. Sprawled out on the ground, riddled with charred bullet holes and a shrapnel blast, was a roughly humanoid figure. No blood stained its form, only white grease-like fluid that dripped on the off-white of its torso bared to the dim lighting of the room. _It doesn't... _look _like skin. _Reaching down, he slowly brushed his fingers across the exposed carapace, and found he was quite correct.

"_This feels... rubbery. Synthetic, maybe._" A heavy fist descended upon it, and he was rewarded with a heavy and thoroughly inhuman _thud_. "_Yeah, definitely synthetic._"

Above him, still standing, Dan snorted as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. "_Take a look at its head._"

He could see why, then; in place of where its head would go was a single, hooded flashlight-like optic set into a spine of circuitry and the same artificial musculature that its chest was made of. A clean slice of the muscle was missing, presumably stripped away by the same round that had left a hole in the hood that adorned the optic, and he could see the shiny wire cores that lined its construction. Bands of white fibrous 'flesh' stretched over its entire body, fading to dark gray at joints and appendages. Its legs were curved below the knee, jutting far back and swathed in dozens of small metallic reinforcements before descending to three-toed feet. "_You ever see anything like this?_" A shake of Dan's head was all he got in response.

Shepard exhaled slowly, unaware he had been holding it the entire time, and brought up his omnitool. A line of orange light scanning over the dormant machine as it constructed a three-dimensional model to be stored on its onboard memory. Alliance Brass would want to know about it, for certain. _Definitely can't just bring it with us _he thought as he strained to lift its thick legs. Whatever it was made of was _heavy_. The device on his wrist beeped once, indicating its scan was complete, and he reviewed the data before confirming its storage. It had determined its composition to be various fusions of hydrogen and carbon based compounds, though the technology was far beyond his grasping.

"_Let's get back to it, Dan._"

* * *

The door control beeped frantically as the hot-wire overrode its security protocols before giving away, the heavy metal doors ringing as they eased open and the pair strode through.

"_Anybody else on board?_" Shepard queried as he brought up one of the ships interfaces.

Dan only shook his head as he leaned against a waist-high console. "_You know, I don't get why we're doing these runs still. I can't even remember how many slaver ships we've emptied._"

"_Eight, not counting this one. Venting atmosphere in five, double-check pressure seal integrity._" He spoke quickly, one hand moving about his neck as he checked his own seals. Something bothered him about his brawl with the vorcha – something about the way ending it had felt so... _empowering, _like he derived some satisfaction from it, and that bothered him. He had never let emotion get the better of him, that was a quality of a good soldier, but it seemed to _overtake _him – something that actually frightened him.

Dan gave a thumbs-up as he looked his way, and the hull rumbled as it emptied its atmosphere. "_Now we know for sure it's empty._"

His companion snorted loudly. They had made their way through the ship with practiced ease, clearing each room and leaving no survivors lest they surrendered – they had never had any pirate surrender – so there were certainly no survivors on board.

A mote of light rose from the communications hub, and Dan shifted in front of it as he tapped in a command. "_Someone's hailing us, floating a thousand kilometers out._" The same light morphed into a red hue. "_Damn, they're sweeping through the databanks on this tub. They're fast._"

Shepard nodded from his station, maneuvering external aft cameras to lock in on the unidentified ship. It was small, even by Alliance standards, its underbelly gilded with sky blue around twin stripes of faded green over rectangular paneling. Two wing-like triangular fixtures jutted from its side before the hull constricted into an oblong cylinder, presumably the command deck. Most importantly, no weapons stations appeared to grace its length. "_Patch it through._"

"_Unidentified vessel, this is Tali'Zorah nar _Rayya_ of the _Honorata." An accented and filtered voice echoed through the empty ships corridors. Shepard's eyebrow crooked behind the black tint of his helmet. "_We have detected atmospheric breaches on your ship, and are ready to help!_"

The two men looked at each other in surprise. It wasn't often that they were detected in the dead of space, and it came as quite a shock.

"_Hello? Is anyone there?!_" Higher notes – Shepard surmised the voice was female. Young, too, and _blissfully _unaware of the carnage onboard.

A light pinged once on his heads-up display, a local band from Dan that whispered into his helmet. "_What_ _do you want to do Shepard?_"

"_Mission parameters haven't changed, we do what we always do._" Dan nodded once as he typed in more commands.

"_Unidentified vessel, we are on approach for docking in five minutes, hang in there!_"

Behind his mask, Shepard sighed audibly. He was tired, a result of dozens of operations in the system alone, his medigel reserves were low, he was damned _hungry_ and he didn't need someone poking around the ship they were about to detonate. He hesitated a moment, recalling the exit route to their waiting shuttle locked against the hull, as he weighed the options. A small ship like the _Honorata _probably wouldn't concern the Alliance if it were caught in the blast radius, as he had always been given limited amounts of leeway, and he debated simply letting it get caught in the conflagration; the blast would most likely vaporize a ship that small.

Some bit of humanity surfaced in his thoughts, and it pointed out that the ship was only trying to help, and that it wasn't their fault they were in a bad place at a bad time. "_Dan, set the reactor to overload in ninety seconds, that should give us enough time to exfil safely._" He tiredly rolled his neck as he spoke.

Dan seemed to agree with his analysis – not that it would have mattered anyway, he had always trusted Shepard's instinct – and warning klaxons peeled in the still vacuum of the ship.

* * *

**January 19th, 2183  
****Crescent Cluster  
****13:20  
****Above an Unidentified Ice World**

"No response, ma'am." A broad-shouldered quarian spoke. His voice was deep for one his age, its gravelly tone only magnified by the environmental suits voice modulator. An overhead bridge light danced across the sky blue matte of his opaque visor, the color matched by the thin and flexible armour plates that adorned his chest and patterned the hood. Each quarians suit reflected his or her own taste, often adorned in their appreciation of art with ornate designs of swirls and lines. His own was covered in fairly rudimentary rectangular swirls, simple yet equally elegant.

"I understand, Keenah." A younger quarian acknowledged, the higher vocal tones reflecting her youthful naïveté. But the truth was, Tali'Zorah nar Rayya was _far _from understanding. The _Honorata _had practically run over the drifting ship as soon as it came out of faster-than-light travel, and for all she knew it had been _waiting _for them; it was certainly positioned well. She had panicked earlier, three-fingered hands dancing wildly with the ships control interfaces as it bucked and brayed to her commands. It had only been after scan reports fed through that she realized the ship was dead in space, much to her general embarrassment.

But yet, her heart leapt – a perfectly good ship so early into a pilgrimage was practically unheard of – before dropping sullenly as she slid lower in the uncomfortable pilot chair. Even if she _did _return to the Migrant Fleet, her home 'world', with the ship in tow, her father would be undoubtedly disappointed in her gift. _That man is an insufferable b – !_

"Miss Zorah, that ship is leaking atmosphere _fast_."

The older quarians report startled her out of her thoughts. An atmospheric leak was a _serious _problem, one of any quarians worst fears, as it typically resulted in the deaths of the entire crew – she desperately keyed the communications relay button appropriately. "Unidentified vessel, this is Tali'Zorah nar Rayya of the _Honorata_. We have detected atmospheric breaches on your ship, and are ready to help!"

Simultaneously, her hands were in a frenzied flurry over the interface as she made a connection to the floating vessels databanks and her eyes poured over the data. One memory address in specific interested her, and she brought it up just as the bridge camera feeds descended to the blankness of a severed connection. "_Hello? Is anyone there?!_" Her voice rose an octave in panic – Quarians were a very social people, and she could hardly imagine _not _helping. A quick tap on the interface and the _Honorata _angled herself before the thrusters pushed them towards the derelict. "_Unidentified vessel, we are on approach for docking in five minutes, hang in there!_"

Autopilot took over, and she resumed her electronic sweeps. It wasn't long before she smacked the console in frustration. "Someone is _blocking _me here!" Her voice rode waves of incredulity and shock as the system actively pushed her out. "Did we get _any_thing?"

Keenah'Breizh seemed to be taking it mostly in stride, calmly tapping away at his station as he deciphered the little data they had successfully read. "It's a _vorcha _ship! Slavers! – Hang on, core readings are off the charts!"

"Slavers? And they're coming afterus?!" Unbidden images of control chips rose to her mind, and she blanched behind her visor at the thought of being implanted with one. _Dammit Tali, no!_

"Er... Not quite."

_Wait, what? _"What do you mean 'no'?" Well-placed confusion laced her voice as she cocked her head.

"_Keelah, i_t's going into meltdown!" That did it, she was well and truly panicking then. "Hang on, there's another heat signature!" The ship that rose off the derelict's asymmetric hull was small, something she had previously thought it was some type of communications relay and certainly _not _another ship. She briefly considered how big of a gift _two _ships would be, before berating herself for even thinking about it. _Focus, Tali, focus! We could _die _and all I'm thinking about is that stupid, arrogant, self-righteous, anti-social, self-concerned, _arrogant _piece of – _

"Tali, what are you _doing?!_"

"What does it _look _like I'm doing?" She replied almost haughtily as the sluggish ship came about, the view screen barely keeping up with the dark perpetrator. "I'm _following _it. I want to know what is going on!"

For his part, Keenah didn't say a word as she multi-tasked piloting the ship and commanded an infiltration program, her lip pinned under the sharp incisors on her upper jaw. A quick flush of her hand sent the piloting controls his way, and he bumbled momentarily before taking over. She, however, became completely focused on the task, pinging every possible memory address on the ship she could – fruitlessly, it would appear. _Keelah, there are _so many _firewalls! Dammit Tali, focus!_

"Energy spike! It's going to light-speed!"

_No! Not.. Yet! _She put on a burst of speed, fingers skipping upon the glowing interface she was hunched over. _They're blowing up a perfectly good ship, they can't get away with this! No no no, no-no, no no no dammit!_

Thin thruster trails twisted and distorted before drifting listlessly about the void of space as the dark ship shot into faster-than-light travel with a muted clap. Tali only slumped back in her chair, defeated and utterly dismayed that those _criminals _had gotten away. Wasting resources like that was a travesty to her people, whom scrounged and scavenged everything they could to keep their ships from falling apart, and the wastefulness drove her crazy. She huffed with exhaustion and closed her eyes briefly – _a _failure _so early in my pilgrimage. What would my father say? _A mirthless laugh echoed behind her visor. _Probably nothing, considering he barely_ _speaks to me, his _daughter_, as is._

"Keenah, did we get _anything_ useful?" A gloved hand rose to the purple visor, thumb and index fingers stretching across as she rested her head in her hand.

The answer was as she expected: practically nothing. _The ship didn't even have a _name. _This is _not _how I imagined my pilgrimage going._

"Uh... Miss Zorah? Our ship isn't responding."

Her growl, thoroughly dripping with aggravation, was audible even past the muted helmet speaker.

* * *

"_That ship, the _Honorata,_ is it still beyond blast radius?_" Shepard asked as he landed heavily in the pilot seat of the their shuttle. In front of him, holographic screens winked into existence as the ship powered up.

"_Yeah, seems to have slowed down._"

"_Probably knows what's about to happen. Engines at max, and... _" The sloop rose off the hull of the _Clotilde _as its baffled thrusters flared into operation, the outputs white-hot as it banked around the undercarriage of the larger ship. "_... We're in full burn._"

Lights flashed on their communications panel as the _Honorata _began hailing their ship. A press of a button and the sloop's jamming packages went online in full effect, electronic countermeasures pinging as their ship swooped near the _Honorata _on their way out of system. "_Guess they know we're here._" His copilot remarked idly.

"_Start data-mining. I want to know who they are and why they're here at the same time as us._" A terminal whirred to life, a flurry of data flashing on its screen as the software began downloading anything and everything off the foreign ship's computers. The display halted for a moment before resuming a sporadic feed – whoever was on the other side was countering their moves, impressive considering the top-grade Alliance hardware they were going against.

Behind them, a speck on their aft camera feeds flared brightly as the _Clotilde _burst in a gout of red flame, tendrils arcing off like petals of a flower. The similarly-sized _Honorata _entered a slow loop as it turned to follow them, something that elicited mild interest from Shepard. Perhaps they were pirates looking to gut them for disrupting their operations in the system; if they were, they were rather poor at it. _A lone, unarmed ship patrolling the system? Someone wasn't thinking straight. _Still, they didn't have all the facts – yet – and so he slipped his hand from the controls of the aft-mounted mass driver that was tracking the ship in pursuit. Instead, they drifted towards another terminal, fingers tapping away as he prepped bogus packages that would temporarily clog and disable the pursuer's ship.

"_Dan, I'm going to stop them from following us for a bit. Hit the gas and get us to the relay._"

"_Aye aye _captain." Shepard chuckled behind his visor; Dan had recently begun addressing him as varying ranks of honor, something he did to remind him he wasn't technically in charge.

"_Just do it, smartass._" Several meters behind them the pylon rings began gyrating into a frenzy around the reactor core, pumping power to the ship's mass effect drives. A feeling of weightlessness overcame him as he sent the disruptor package, and the view-screens blanked as their sloop went to faster-than-light travel. Behind them, the _Honorata _drifted in space as its thrusters went offline.

* * *

**January 22nd, 2183  
****Arcturus Station  
****1100 Station Time**

A low whistle went up between the officers as they looked out upon the shipyards of Arcturus Station. Captain Anderson couldn't help but be impressed by the long and sloping frigate in front of him, even as several meters of its skeleton were still bared in the void of space. The white and off-white paneling of its smoothly descending hull shone brightly under bright bay lights, the fang-like protrusions on the nose gleaming, and equal length two-part wings angled low off the body. Black thruster manifolds were attached to the ends of these wings, the hollow rectangular housings welded onto joints that would allow a significant range of motion. On the opposite end of the wings were landing skids, the claw-like axis-mounted brackets holding the front end of the ship off the deck. From where he stood, he could see the words _Normandy _and _SR1 _emblazoned in white on the black of the trim and wing, respectively. In a word, it was beautiful.

"A cooperative effort between the Turian Hierarchy and the Alliance; first of its kind." Admiral Hackett mused at the captain's expression. Most of the Alliance's ships were graceless, though of similar design, yet none had managed to captivate more people than the SSV _Normandy_.

The younger – albeit not by much – captain straightened and snapped into a hasty salute. "Admiral! She's a beauty, sir."

"At ease." He nodded as the captain relaxed before continuing. "That she is, though most seem to dwell on its turian origins more so than appreciate it for what it is."

Anderson's face was one of polite interest; it wasn't truly disingenuous at all, rather that he was much more interested in what it _was _rather than what it was supposed to represent. Still, when an admiral makes small-talk about a pet project... "Humanity can't be close-minded anymore, admiral. The galaxy is too big and unprecedented for such beliefs." He weighed his words carefully before speaking.

"I agree. The _Normandy _represents a step towards cooperation, a recuperation from first contact hostilities. Unfortunately, it would seem that those the Brass wants to put in charge of her do not share that sentiment." The older admiral passed a quiet sigh. "It's an all human crew, but they still won't touch it with a ten foot pole."

The captain couldn't see why; the ship was gorgeous, and if the baffling on the engines were any indication she'd easily outpace any other ship in the fleet. The main cannon itself looked longer and slightly wider than a typical frigate's cannon, housing additional electromagnetic railing for more powerful and accurate shots, and the plating appeared to be playing host to several more efficient heat management systems, though he could only speculate on that. He couldn't think of a ship that could match its propensity for its job. "Nobody, sir?"

Admiral Hackett only nodded. "I'm supposed to be meeting with a prospect now, actually." Dark wrinkles of now-genuine surprise creased the captain's forehead; the coincidence was not lost upon him. A low chuckle emitted from the admiral before he continued. "What do you think of the _Normandy_, Captain Anderson?"

It took the captain several moments before he collected his thoughts well enough to respond, though the composure never left his mostly impassive face. "She looks to be a fine ship, admiral." He turned slightly, bringing his body about to face Hackett. "Though if you're asking what I'd think about being at her helm... "

"I am."

"... I don't know, sir. It'd be an honor, but I think there are numerous more qualified candidates."

Hackett seemed to regard him in mild amusement as he waved off the man's claim, clearly having expected such protests. The mute thumps of thick-heeled dress shoes sounded off against the plate decking as he moved off with deliberate slowness. "Walk with me, captain."

* * *

**February 18th, 2183  
****Arcturus Station  
****2300 Station Time**

Orange glow was cast over the sleek bulkheads of his office. Ambient lighting lined the corners of the room, a dim and easy outline in the simulated nighttime of the station. Captain Anderson paced uneasily before his terminal, a hologram of a sleek frigate flickering above it like the flame of a candle. Several data pads were scattered over the surface of his desk, status lights pulsing slowly as they idled in power-conservation mode.

Anderson's mind was elsewhere, though.

He had been transferred off the SSV _London_, which in itself was odd as captains were almost never pulled from active duty, and reassigned to the newly-christened SSV _Normandy_ in a matter of minutes – apparently being the commanding officer for the entirety of the Fifth Fleet had its perks – _and_ was now tasked with the prep-work for her maiden voyage. Dozens upon dozens of status reports had flowed through his omnitool and terminal connections practically as soon as the admiral had authorized his transfer, and for the better part of a handful of days he had cooped up and reading through them. They had pulled one Flight Lieutenant Jeff Moreau from simulations, and he had near-immediately received a message from the overly-confident pilot laced with a distinct lack of regard for command structure. The boy's service record was as impressive as some officers he'd seen, though, so he didn't seem to be _all _bad news.

An icon flashed on the terminal as a new message registered in his server, and he reviewed it in brief before sitting fully in the stiff office chair. His marine detachment commander, one Staff Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko, had arrived on Arcturus Station, which was finally something he could relate to having been in the same position a handful of years ago – a new unit, a new commanding officer, a new ship.

The data pad he picked up coursed with the scrolling text of a backlog of 'important' news. His eyes scanned over it, picking up on every fourth line as he thumbed through it. A new window appeared on it, and he was pleased to note that all sixteen Helium-3 tanks had been filled to maximum pressure, and that the oversized Tantalus drive-core had been started successfully. He chuckled appreciatively; that had been his first surprise, the drive core. When he had first read the Element Zero consumption of the core, he had expected a cruiser or carrier. But then, to his immense surprise, he had been introduced to the only slightly-oversized frigate that was the _Normandy_. No doubt some of the higher ranking brass had gotten up in arms about the cost of the ship, a thought that gave him some small bit of satisfaction.

The terminal flashed again; another message. _More from Alenko?... _The surprise he felt at seeing the admiral's name come up on the new window, then, was more than a match for the previous Eezo situation. He took a moment to sit straighter and smooth the wrinkles from his uniform before he accepted the transmission. Admiral Hackett's weathered face winked into existence above his desk.

"_Captain Anderson, I apologize for calling so late. I trust I didn't wake you?_"

He almost laughed; he hadn't been having what most would consider the most consistent sleep as of late. "Not to worry either way, admiral. What can I do for you?"

The admiral nodded appreciatively. "_We're moving up the _Normandy's_ schedule, I need you and her crew at full operational capacity as soon as possible._"

"Yes, sir. What does our timetable look like?"

"_Tomorrow, zero-eight-hundred station time._"

"Sir?" He did a double take, confusion wrinkling his dark brow. "Tomorrow?"

"_That's right._" For his part, the admiral remained mostly impassive. "_I'm forwarding related information to your omnitool._" He appeared troubled momentarily, stress beginning to show its etchings. "_We lost contact with a colony, Eden Prime, at nineteen-hundred hours. Final communication relays just came through the buoys; something hit them, and they hit it hard._"

Something about the situation stuck out in his mind. "'Lost'? This seems a lot like Elysium, sir."

Admiral Hackett nodded gravely. "_That's why we need you there pronto, son. Get some rest, you leave bright and early tomorrow._"

Anderson's brow knitted tight together as he scanned through the new report he had received from the admiral. It was far too similar to the Skyllian Blitz to ignore, but subtly different. For one, the majority of the Alliance forces there appeared to have been easily decimated, something mere slavers and pirates hardly seemed capable of. He looked at it once more before reviewing the earlier communique from his detachment leader.

"Sir, this doesn't feel right. With your permission, we can be on the relay within the hour."

Hackett seemed to consider this for a moment before a small smile of appreciation flashed over his face. "_I appreciate the enthusiasm. I'll let the dockmaster know of the change in plans._" The cold blue of the admiral's eyes glanced off screen, and he seemed to read over a report on his end before continuing. "_I have a unit prepping as a force multiplier for the _Normandy's _crew for this mission only, though, so you'll have to sit tight until they arrive._"

Anderson's curiousity was piqued. "'Unit'? If you don't mind my asking, sir, I like to know who's on board my ship."

"_I believe you're well-acquainted, actually._" The admiral only chuckled as Anderson leaned forward, pressing him for details. "_Details are on your screen, Anderson. Hackett out._"

A window emblazoned with security protocols and warning flashed over the entirety of his holo-screen as the admiral faded from view, and Anderson felt an inkling of familiarity settle in his stomach. Several seconds passed as the security programs thoroughly scanned inbound and outbound connections before a photo-less service record blinked onto the screen. At the top, three words confirmed his suspicion: _6__th__ Task Force_.

* * *

**February 19th, 2183  
****Arcturus Station  
****0020 Station Time**

"Arcturus Station... Feels like forever since I've been here."

Shepard chuckled appreciatively as he and Dan shouldered heavy black gear bags, armour pieces clanking together as they shifted within. For the first time in several days, he had shed the lean combat gear, opting instead for the barely-more-comfortable officer uniform he had been given. It had only lasted a few minutes before he had tossed the overly-ornate dress shirt with its weaved epaulette plates and thin chest armour into his bag with the rest of his gear, preferring the significantly superior comfort of the enlisted physical training shirt.

Rubber boot soles beat a steady rhythm against the cold metal tiles of the station's flooring as the two men walked through an abnormally empty corridor between the docking bay they had come from and one of the station's commons. The doors slid open at their approach, and the hubbub of an active sector of the commercial district flooded out. Hundreds, if not thousands of voices all added to the clamour of happy friends and salesmen pitching their products. Neon signs glowed in an exuberant rainbow of colors all down the strip several lengths above the sea of men and women and alien alike.

Behind him, Dan snorted shortly. "Turians, on Arcturus Station? Never thought I'd see that."

"So long as they're not trying to kill me, it doesn't bother me."

Whether it was a grunt of agreement or simple indifference that he heard, Shepard didn't know. Their interactions with other species had largely – if not completely – consisted of fighting them, and as far as he was concerned, 'live and let live' rang true. That constant state of fighting had undoubtedly taken effects on him, and he had to resist a subconscious urge to bat away and engage the merchant whom had reached for them as they passed by.

"You good, Shepard?" He could hear the low chuckling of his fellow marine over the din around them as the merchant shrank back and retreated to the safety of his stall. Shepard had been feeling on edge for most of his waking hours, even after prolonged periods in cryogenic sleep – 'deep freezer' sleep, as he thought of it – and though in combat he could push it under the rug, when he didn't have a target or objective he tended to wander aimlessly or bury himself in intel.

He staved those feelings off as he closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, unbidden memories of a tiny figure in his arms called up only to be quashed as he continued moving. "Yeah, I'm set. Just wondering why our mission was scrubbed to call us back."

"Something to do with that metal thing we found on that ship?"

It took Shepard several moments to realize what exactly Dan's indeterminate reference was to, and he fuzzily recalled the humanoid synthetic on board the _Clotilde._ "Doubt it. Haven't heard anything about it since." He mulled it over in his thoughts. "Plus, we kind of destroyed it."

Dan shrugged as they came to a stop near a checkpoint to the sector's barracks. "Maybe the other ship then?"

The marine behind glass at the checkpoint tapped something on a terminal screen, and the door buzzed open as Shepard considered it; Truth be told, he could hardly remember that event, not because it was particularly long ago but rather because it didn't seem to be an event worth remembering. He could still recall parts of it, like the synthetic humanoid and setting off the core at risk to themselves, but beyond that the memory was cloudy and blurry at best.

With a sigh of defeat, he tossed the gear bag at the foot of his footlocker a little harder than he intended, the cloth bulk skidding across the tile before smashing into the thin metal structures with a terrible crash. As if to emphasize this, Dan's dropped quietly to the stiff mattress of an adjacent cot, head cocked quizzically as he evaluated him.

Shepard waved off the impending question with a flyaway hand as he rubbed his temples with the other from the general comfort of his cot. "Just tired, nothing else." But that wasn't exactly true; the last few assignments had been empty runs in a largely empty sector, drifting about the reefs of stardust as they waited for new orders. He had found himself wishing a whole mess of hostiles would show up more times than he could count, preferring the comfortable familiarity of combat to lazing about and waiting for ghost ships.

A thorough shake cleared his head of mutinous thoughts; such foolhardiness could get people killed. Instead, he considered the gear bag in front of him while rising from the cot. His last 'experimental modification' had ended with his pistol's heatsink being fused together with an indeterminable section of the sidearm's breech – as it turned out, heat regulator systems didn't have much wiggle room. A hand snaked inside his duffel bag before pulling the mass that was the sidearm into the bright white light of the barracks.

"I hope you plan on keeping that." Across from him, Dan smirked openly as he cast his vision over the melted pistol. "If you're not, I think I might, just so I can remind you why we don't tinker with our toys."

The breech, where the heatsink was stored, was a mess of metal that had re-solidified as it dribbled down the surface of the frame. Polymers used on the grip had curled up and blackened in the heat, and the pungent and acrid odor they exhaled lingered still. Forward of the breech, the metal was smoked and charred with ash all the way down the length of the barrel. Not his proudest of moments, by far.

An easy heave covered the distance between them, and the ruined weapon landed in Dan's outstretched hand. "Put it in a trophy case or something." Shepard laughed as he stood, aiming to leave the barracks. "Meanwhile, I have to go buy a new one."

* * *

"Greetings, Earth-clan. _Kssshhk. _Ah yes, the Stiletto, a fine choice."

The laboured breathing of the dumpy volus crackled over the low din of the requisition bay. Bulbous domes individually masked the volus' eyes that met Shepard's, the breather's light flashing below a forked suit accent draped over the helmet of its pressure suit. A rotund metal sheathing encapsulated most of the alien's body, stubby arms protruding at near chin-level.

Surprise was written on his face as he regarded the volus before offering his hand in typical introduction. "Shepard, pleased to meet you...?"

"_Kssshhk._" Thick breaths prefaced every exchange as the two met with a firm handshake, even though Shepard's own hand was below waist height to meet the volus' own. "Pon Torla. As I was saying – _kssshhk _– the newer Stilettos have fifteen percent – _kssshhk_ – improved heat reduction over the – _kssshhk _– _older _models."

The inflection upon the older version of the weapon was not lost on Shepard, and he smirked inwardly as he remembered the volus were _the _merchant race of the galaxy, due in no small part to their ineptitude in most anything physical courtesy of their stature. He ventured a question to test the volus' knowledge. "They finally replaced the solid copper heatsink?"

Behind its complex suit mask and breather, Shepard couldn't tell if the alien had caught onto his ploy, and it otherwise showed no hint of recognition. "_Kssshhk. _The first generation used – _kssshhk _– _aluminum _heatsinks, Earth-clan."

"Must have slipped my mind." He grinned sheepishly as he reached for the compacted pistol. The glass display case slid away from his fingers as the shopkeeper waived its security on his omnitool, and he closed his grip around the oddly short grip of the pistol. His pinky and most of the ring finger dangled in the air below the pistol's grip, prompting a curious glance towards the volus, who seemed to cock his head in equal confusion before straightening.

"_Kssshhk. _Ah! Forgive me, Earth-clan, that is – _kssshhk – _a _turian _designed pistol."

The statement took a few moments to click as he mulled it over in his mind. Finally, it dawned on him: Turians were _three-_fingered, not five like himself. That was too bad, the steel-gray of the light pistol was quite appealing, not to mention the rather shocking number that followed in the line for 'impact energy'. _The little pistol that could..._

"We have some other, more human – _kssshhk _– friendly weapons, if I could draw – _kssshhk _– your attention this way..." The volus' plump arm swept out slowly to another display case, not that Shepard noticed. His omnitool had begun flashing frantically as an urgent call was patched through. Dan's face winked into existence above his wrist as Shepard held up a polite finger to the merchant.

"Hold on, please. What's going on, Dan?"

The marine borne above his wrist appeared to be in the middle of packing a duffel even larger than the first. "_Shepard, we just got priority re-tasking by the admiral. Get back here pronto, I'll meet you outside with your stuff._"

Shepard nodded once before the call disconnected, before looking towards the merchant again and gesturing towards the turian pistol. "Box up this one and get the papers, I'll make it work." He shifted uncomfortably as the stocky volus moved towards the counter to fetch a box from underneath it. _Man, they really can't move much faster can they? _"Actually, I'll just take it as it is."

Pon Torla halted in his step before wobbling to turn and face Shepard. "_Kssshhk. _Surely, you know it is _illegal _– _kssshhk _– to carry weapons in the open." The volus regarded him with a certain humourous disdain as he spoke.

"I'll be careful. There's an extra hundred credits in it for you, if you do." Shepard chuckled as he shook his head shortly.

The volus seemed to consider this proposition for only moments before coming to a decision. "_Two _hundred, Earth-clan, – _kssshhk – _and you have a deal."

Another chuckle escaped his lips as he authorized the transaction on his omnitool before tucking the sleek pistol beneath his belt in the back of the pants he wore. A quick turn of heel and he was striding out of the door, wide steps that turned to the quick patter of a full-on sprint as powerful legs stretched far and long.

* * *

"Shepard! Taking your sweet time, as always." A large black duffel bag – he recognized it as his own from before – was lobbed towards him as he slowed from his sprint, breath winding down to light panting. It had taken the better part of ten minutes at a constant run to make it back to the barracks, through long and narrow hallways, up and down innumerable stairways and more.

He was somewhat upset, then, when he saw Dan moving towards the the landing hulk of an air-car. "You miserable son of a..." The thrusters dimmed as they powered down to the glowing embers of power radiators, and compartments along the side of the vehicle hissed and jumped as they swung open, barring several spacious holds in which the two duffel bags easily fit. Light metal doors sealed over the space with a firm click and the thruster packs flared brightly as the power plant rose back into cycle, and unseen mass effect fields lifted it a foot in the air as the two marines made to enter the seats.

"Dan..." Shepard began as he paused with half of his body in the car. "We appear to be missing a _pilot_."

The other marine looked about the roomy cab in a full sweep as he worked on buckling the four point harness, chuckling before returning his attention to the paddle. "Looks like you'll have to take over." Seeing Shepard's hesitation, he furthered his comment. "Don't give me that look. You know you want to."

It was a simple fact: he _did _want to, and the grin that stretched across his face as he palmed the start-up sequencer betrayed any notion that would indicate otherwise. A whiny thrum took upon the air as the reactor spun faster, feeding power into hungry systems as a surprisingly familiar instrument was pushed out in front of Shepard. "We still use steering wheels?" _And gas pedals, too. _The synthetic rubbery texture of the steering apparatus was at once familiar, and even though its diameter barely stretched two lengths of his hands it was readily smooth to operate. A rough jerk followed the pedal depression as the vehicle took off, and he was sure that Dan was already regretting that he allowed him behind the wheel. A digital readout displayed their position nearest to the center console, and he was disappointed to note that their destination was not terribly far away once they cleared the station and entered the blackness of space.

Dan's omnitool chimed once before the disciplined face of Admiral Hackett materialized above it. He stiffened slightly as he greeted the call, resisting the subconscious urge to stand at attention. Shepard was far too engrossed in dodging around a number of lagging cars to pay attention to the call, and he rose to port with a shift in the wheel's multiple axis of rotation. The hull beneath them vibrated thickly as power coursed through the ship's veins, thrusters firing at full burn as they shot through the mass effect field and into the space encircled by the station. A dozen of more ships were fit through the ring, small speckles of light flashing against their hulls as workers geared in EVA suits swarmed over them, fitting armour plates and a multitude of other components.

Shepard keyed the navigational suite once more before tapping in a command and searching for the nav-point overlaid on the windshield. Their destination was tucked behind the hulking mass of a cruiser, and a touch of the pedals sent them drifting towards their destination.

"So, what did Hackett want?"

Dan shrugged. "Just filling me in on some stuff. Found out why hunting down pirates got scrubbed."

Their destination edged into view from behind the cruiser as they arced towards it, and Shepard was once again pleasantly surprised. Instead of a sloop or faster-than-light capable shuttle, they were apparently set rendezvous with a somewhat oversized frigate, her long sloped spine gleaming white in the ambient lighting. Thick white letters graced the black lower trim paneling: _Normandy _and _SR1_ had been painted on its hull and wing respectively. Shepard was a marine, and combat and destruction came second nature to him, but even he could appreciate the fine lines of the frigate.

"Who's her captain?" He queried.

"You'll see." His fellow marine smirked at the subsequent sigh of irritation. "Call it payback for the bumpy ride."

Shepard resisted the urge to slug the man, but only barely. "I got us here, didn't I?"

The shuttle touched down on an extended bridge deck as it entered atmosphere-containing mass effect fields nearest the frigate. He checked for other unsuited personnel before hesitantly opening the cab to the shuttle. _Well, haven't asphyxiated or popped under the pressure yet. _Still, it was with no small amount of discomfort that he disembarked and retrieved his gear bag, much preferring the familiarity of his armour that could be pressurized and keep him alive should anything happen with the atmospheric fields.

Boots clapped against the deck behind him, and he turned to face their sources as they approached.

"Captain Anderson? I wasn't told you would be here, sir."

The hastily snapped salute elicited a wave of the captain's hand. "Stow the formalities, Shepard. It's been too long." An appreciative smile broke across all three of the men's faces as they shook hands. The man that escorted Anderson out shifted uneasily, catching the captain's eye. "This is Staff Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko. He's my detachment leader, and you'll be working together in the coming assignment."

Shepard passed a quick salute towards the marine – given his status, he wasn't terribly sure what his own rank was, if he even had one – before the captain gestured for them to follow. He appeared to be a bit of a lax marine, Shepard noted as his eyes passed over the short pompadour that adorned Alenko's head. _My old drill sergeant would have a hay-day with this guy. _Still, that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, and at the very least the rest of his image appeared immaculate. He couldn't quite put a finger on his heritage, with the tan skin of a Hispanic but the light facial accents indicative of an Asian descendancy. Perhaps he'd ask later.

"Shepard, I assume you've read about our assignment?" Captain Anderson's voice struck him from his speculation.

He grimaced visibly before responding. "Actually, I wasn't told much, except to get here as soon as possible." A small bay door in the _Normandy's _port-side hull opened to a sterile white room as the four men entered it. It was somewhat small for a frigate, and he doubted its capacity was more than a half-dozen.

"_Stand by, shore party._" A distinctly computerized voice whispered into the chamber as the door behind them sealed shut. "_Decontamination in progress._" A band of white materialized along the floors and walls of the chamber as a thin field slowly passed over the group.

Captain Anderson turned to look at Shepard after a few moments. "One of our colonies, Eden Prime, dropped off the communications grid a few hours ago. Haven't heard a peep from them since, and that's not good."

Alenko nodded grimly as he added his own commentary. "Eden Prime is a symbol of humanity, so it gets targeted by threats frequently... But we've never had it go dark like this before. "

Shepard nodded his comprehension. "Understood; anything could happen. Anything else?" The band of light passed over him for what seem like the tenth time in as many minutes. _Christ, so much for efficiency._

As if on cue, the beam snapped off as the final door slid open, revealing the spacious command center to the group as Anderson turned on his heel to exit the chamber.

"Nothing more, Shepard. Welcome to the _Normandy_."

* * *

_(Thanks for all the follows and favorites y'all did up last chapter! It was really a great feeling to see it, so hopefully it'll keep up ;] Either way, I hope this chapter turned out alright. As usual, checked it over once or twice. I did notice that my writer deleted a number of apostrophes from this chapter and the last, so if you see any errors in possessive endings and such, I hope it won't hinder the story too much. With that, the prologue is complete, but I'll keep the Mass Effect 1 timeline [and other things I write in that time-span] in this story so I don't have to go and make a new submission. Plus, it would be a bit pointless to have one just for the prologue, though now that I'm thinking about it I'll have to figure out naming conventions for later chapters in this bit, given the character length of Roman numerals in the twenties and thirties. Anyhow, thanks again for reading, you're effing fantastic!)_


	10. Chapter XI: Guns and Horses

_(Long chapter inbound. Feel free to skip it, nothing too good going on below. Also, FFnet seems to have found six hundred or so extra words that OpenOffice isn't finding - OpenOffice says the document is 32,361 word long, FFnet says it's 32,956 words long - and I'm not sure where that discrepancy is coming from. If you see it, let me know?)_

* * *

**February 20th, 2183  
****Eden Prime  
****1540 Earth Time****  
**

The Colonial Security station was a mess: Supply crates were busted open, packets of rations and weapon parts and other gear spilling out of the toppled crates. Data-pads were scattered behind overturned desks, whose own surfaces were marred with dozens of burnt impacts. A trash compactor lay ajar, one of its sides ruptured outwards in an ugly display of curled metals and smoking debris.

An empty plastic bag tumbled down the hallway, sheared side riding in the breeze that drifted through. It bounced off a blackened tile and passed crumbling walls of concrete and metallic skeletons as sporadic gunfire echoed far off in the distance below skies of burnt and ripened orange. The hot-white orb of the sun drifted lazily above the horizon, oblivious to the events transpiring below.

A thick-soled boot pinned the bag to the floor as a trio of humans made their way into the once safe station, even as small fires threatened to consume it whole. The first through the massive crag in the wall was a strong-jawed male beset in standard navy blue Alliance armour. His pistol came up and he swept it about the room, checking for occupants and passing a sigh that was equal parts grateful and disheartened when none appeared. Behind him, a thin woman and another man eased in, landing with tired grace before moving off slowly.

"Yuri, anything on the scanners?" The woman in dirty white armour accented in deep cerise whispered as more small arms fire rang out, noticeably closer than before.

The pistol-wielding man checked his omnitool briefly before shaking his head. "Nothing chief, only whatever we left."

Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams squeezed her eyes shut as she took in the results. She had been hoping, desperately praying that some other remnants of her unit had holed up in the structure, and coming to terms with being one of the few remaining would not be easy on her. _Now's not the time girl. s_he thought as she shook her head clear. Only one of their group carried any weapon at all, and it was a measly sidearm at that. She felt oddly naked without her service rifle, the lack of weight in her hands thoroughly discomforting as she dug through an overturned supply crate. _C'mon medigel, I know you're around here somewhere... _Her hand dug through the jumbled mess of dozens of boxes of various knickknacks – replacement small arms heatsinks by the dozens, spare armour grafts, but little else – before shaking her head in defeat and moving away from it. "I've got nothing here."

"Same, nothing." The third man, Jones, breathed.

Yuri looked over the dark gray pistol in his hands as he shook his head. The thing barely had enough firepower to take down a low-end shield, much less punch through _whatever _had landed in the colony. Wordlessly, the trio nodded at each other as they moved towards the doorway, the housed door blasted through during the earlier fight.

Helmet lights clicked on, illuminating thin swathes of swirling dust and debris as they swept around the deserted building. Her light fell upon the boot of a someone entombed in a small mountain of collapsed ceiling tiles, and Ashley turned away, face plastered in a sorrowed grimace.

* * *

_The geth had easily broken through what little resistance the colonies had put up, the butchers of cold metal and wiring relentless in their assault that had taken the better part of a full day. Elements of the 212 were holed up in the security station, small-arms fire pouring from wide fissures in the outer wall borne of incoming fire. Ashley Williams' rifle's heatsink pushed out, expelling hot gas into the air as the metal cooled from heated red to dull chrome._

"_Chief Williams, we need to pull back! Geth drones are inbound and coming fast!"_

_An aggravated growl loosed from her tight lips as she nodded and turned to run with her squad. As she planted her foot, the telltale beam of a sniper rifle flashed through the air inches from her face, the ionization reaching her nose as its target snapped forward and fell, armour plates smouldering with heat. With renewed vigor, she pushed off, breaking into full run even as the patter of projectiles landed at her feet. The same sniper rifle tolled again, the round skimming off her shields before slamming into the rifle she carried. A hole the size of a small fist was punched through the main firing mechanism – _Frigged up beyond all repair _she decided as she dropped it mid-sprint._

_The door slammed shut behind her, pressure locks booming as it sealed even as it was drummed with fire. Barely a step past it, Ashley was doubled over, chest heaving as she gratefully drew in lungfuls of hot air._ _The flashlight-heads had dropped out of the sky, hundreds of them falling like hail on the unprepared colonists; what followed, then, was unadulterated and seemingly baseless slaughter... But that was hours ago._

_Her respite was, at best, brief, interrupted by a massive blast against the door that tossed her against an overturned desk, which cracked against her meager weight. Stars fluttered across her sight, bright colors blooming from abysses as her body reeled against the force. Spluttering, her hand found solid floor as she pushed herself up slowly, every muscle in her body screaming in protest when she turned herself onto her back. Blurred shapes drifted about in front of her as she tried in vain to blink away the bleariness that blanketed her dazed mind. An ungodly bright light washed over her as she pushed her back against the crate, intent on taking a breather had the light not acted as windshield wipers on a rainy day. A thin geth platform stepped through the opening, the beaming spotlight of its video unit sweeping over the room before locking onto Ashley as it did. In a fit of anger, she reached for the sidearm that adorned her hip only to find herself grasping at nothing – it was gone, and so she felt her shoulders heave one last time, breath drifting from pale lips as she resigned to her fate. The geth appeared to regard her for a moment, calculating the threat before coming to some consensus. Its spiny shotgun rose in both hands, gaping barrel aimed true at her chest. She smiled, strangely; a fitting death for a Williams. A shotgun barked its report._

_But death never came._

_Tentatively, almost timidly she eased her eyelids to a hairline squint only to watch the geth platform keel over, half of its skeletal body torn apart. A gangly marine stood in the blasted-apart doorway, shotgun booming at his side as he fired indiscriminately through the doorway. Several moments passed as he continued blasting, ceasing only when the courtyard was reasonably clear. He turned then, a small smile on the familiar face – _

"_James!"_

_The building shook violently, and at first Ashley thought the planet was undergoing one of its rare earthquakes. It was much to her dismay to see the cracks forming all above the ceiling, then. Her eyes widened, white gauntlet reaching out as she tried to warn him through a parched and worn throat. For his part, James seemed to recognize the situation as he stared upwards at the shivering roof, but to no avail. He had only time to utter one warning – _"Run!" –_ before the thick tiles battered his body, crushing him under their weight in numbers._

_And so she did, fueled by grief and anger and despair and hope, ran as her longtime friend was pulverized by the collapsing structure and geth fire zipped over her heaving shoulders. She ran with purpose, a dedication of vengeance even as tears for the fallen stung at the corners of her eyes. She would be back, in time._

_And she would settle the score._

* * *

"Rest easy, James." Ashley trudged on slowly, pushing at various piles of rubble with the toes of her boot. It wouldn't do them any good to dwell on those that hadn't made it; there would be a time and a place to mourn, though if she were honest with herself, she wasn't optimistic about their own odds.

The mute buzz of her omnitool made her aware of the incoming connection, and she keyed the device after several moments of unanswered pings. "Williams here. Find anything?"

Yuri's voice, dripping with agitated sarcasm, responded. "_Oh yes, lots. Mostly dead bodies, though. Not sure why we're still here."_

"We're here to find _weapons_, ass-hat, unless you feel like trying to take a geth down with that scrap of a pistol." She snapped back, ire rising with his inconsiderate lack of regard for the situation. Inwardly, she knew the causticity was probably just his way of coping with the wholesale annihilation of the colonies. Even knowing that, she felt no reprieve for him. "We're lucky to be alive still, so get. it. _together._"

The radio was quiet for several seconds, occasionally washing over with static as she passed malfunctioning equipment whose intermittent sparking served as lighting in the dim corridor. "_... My bad._" Was all that echoed over the channel, and her eyes rolled to their limits in response. _Sometimes, men can be really immature._

"_On a happier note, I think I found some stuff we can use here._" Jones' voice sounded off just as she was making to shut down the channel. His voice was properly laden with a measure of guilt, even as lazy excitement bubbled to its surface. "_Hell~ooo... What's this?_" His musings followed shortly after.

Ashley spun on her toes, loose dirt grinding into the tiles as she retraced her steps down the hall. Orange glow diffused into an overlaid map above her wrist and small blue dots blinked onto the display, representations of her two teammate's positions. One was nearing the corner right in front –

"_Oof!_" The significantly smaller Ashley practically bounced off Yuri's bulky armour as they simultaneously rounded the corner. Armoured pauldrons smacked off the scratched up wall as the latter man merely stood in amused surprise, and the former rubbed her lower back ruefully. A short glare found its way up through the tinted half-visor of her helmet, lips pursed as she considered lashing out at him for not watching where he was going.

Brief respite behind closed eyes dissuaded her from that course of action, especially as the man's hand swung down low in offer of assistance. "Up and at 'em, chief." He mumbled as Ashley was heaved to her feet, nursing nothing more than wounded pride. She didn't reply, except to step purposefully onward.

They entered to find the younger marine kneeling over a crate whose side had been busted open on one end, its contents mounded on the floor. "What did you find, Jones?" Ashley's voice was once again level and composed, if a bit icy.

"This and that. Mostly," He fumbled with something off to his side. "A couple of these." A familiar object was tossed towards her, its thick protruding finger guard hooking on her outstretched digits. Thin red lights kindled along its shell as the sidearm came alive with a brief thrum of energy. She weighed it in her hands, corners of her lips turning down as she did. _Not bad, _she thought while dropping it to an open magnetic pad. The added weight felt comfortable, reassuring even.

"That's it?" Yuri questioned.

The younger marine shrugged noncommittally before leaning back in. A moment's worth of digging later yielded a subtly familiar briefcase-sized black box, which received more than its fair share of confused looks.

Yuri put it bluntly: "... Are we supposed to know what that is?"

Jones only rolled his eyes in response. "Yes, you should." He set the box on floor, undoing its lock and flipping the lid off. "This is a vid-comm unit. Probably some reporter's. Should be able to get word out to nearby ships."

"So – " Ashley opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off mid-syllable as the distinct sound of weapons powering up whined down the hall. She froze, hardly daring to blink while straining her ears and willing the intrusion away.

Yuri, however, had other ideas, and stepped one half of his body out into the hallway to let loose a volley of shots from his pistol. Automatic fire replied in turn, sharp claps echoing down the hall like a frenzied drumbeat. Ashley and Jones swore as they stood, retrieving their new weapons and moving against the wall. _Ideally_, they would have been able to simply sneak out of the building before too many geth showed up, but that plan had already went down the drain.

"Jones, stow that communicator and get moving while we cover you!" She spoke as she peeked out, pistol at the ready. Its short muzzle flashed thrice, heavy-hitting rounds berating the geth platform's shielding before she was forced back into cover._ The problem with the geth, _she decided, _is that they don't _need _cover. _A quick nod towards Yuri and they stepped out together, pistols baying wildly while their own shields flared up. Behind them, the heavy patter of Jones' boots sounded off against the tile as he made for their exit.

"Chief!" Ashley found herself practically airborne, landing hard on her side when Yuri shoved her out of the way as he himself dove into the intersecting hallway they had come into. A smoky rocket streamed through where she had been moments prior and leaving a massive gouge in an adjacent wall when it detonated.

Shrapnel showered her prone form, small chunks of concrete and parts of mechanical systems that invalidated her shields and gleefully pounded at the armour itself. A number of small cracks and dents formed before the hail ceased, and she shook her head violently while pushing herself to her feet. Stars bloomed before her vision, neon spurts of brilliant color that clouded the scene before her.

"Let's get the hell outta here chief!" Yuri appeared next to her, pushing the discarded sidearm back into her hands as he tugged her along the hall. The crag they had came in from loomed in front of them, Jones' wide-eyed face peeking from behind the gaping maw. Yuri was the first through, disregarding gentlemanly rites and squeezing his bulky armoured form through. He tumbled out, crudely landing headfirst on the dirt beyond it before rising to his feet.

Behind her, what passed for a geth's 'voice' – a mute garble of electronic noises – rippled through the air as she stepped one foot into the crevasse. Fire splashed against her shields before a strong hand gripped around her wrist and yanked her bodily from the building. A boot touched the hard-packed dirt outside, and she would have headed straight for the ground had Jones not been completely in her way. An explosion shook the building behind them, and bits of the wall crumbled to the ground in the resounding shock waves.

Glancing over the wall they had just exited from, she shook her head tiredly. "Let's move. They're gonna be on our tail for a while." The trio rushed off, one of them tapping keys on the side of a bulbous vid-comm unit.

* * *

**February 20th, 2183  
****Aboard the SSV _Normandy _SR1  
****1600 Earth Time****  
**

Rough cloth scratched at his face, the thin strands of cotton pulling at the stubble on his cheeks that seemed to prevail over every encounter with any shaving tool. Fat beads of water dripped off his shoulders, scrawny tendrils of steam rising behind him in the partitioned room. That had been his biggest surprise – _showers_. Real, functional, _showers_. Granted, they had usage limits and tight restrictions, but if there was one thing he had missed in the field, those would have been it.

Discontent harrumphs filled the crew bathroom – head, it was technically labeled as – as Shepard pulled on the issue clothing, their starchy creases scraping against his body. They wore in quickly, water vapor loosening the fibers, and soon they weren't _all _bad. He slipped a watch-like device over his wrist, and the display of his omnitool twinkled above it in recognition before slipping away. A finger snaked to his head as he exited, the doors sliding shut behind him as he tweaked water out of his ear.

He exited onto a short elevated pathway, cut through in a cramped hallway that led straight to a central elevator. The vented floor echoed back at him as he stepped into the fairly spacious lift, drips of water from his shower seeping down through the grills. The elevator hummed as the door rose from the floor with unbefitting smoothness, and despite what the detachment leader – _Kaidan, _he reminded himself – and indeed most of the crew had claimed, the elevator wasn't terribly slow at all.

In fact, he was barely on it for a few seconds before the door eased open once more, and he stepped out into a massively wide bay. A trail of red and white guide lights stretched on for what must have been at least fifteen meters before coming to a sudden halt against a bulkhead, flanked on either side by white light bars mounted to the ceiling. Unfortunately, it would seem those were the _only _sources of light in the bay, as his eyes were barely able to pick out much detail off the path.

The elevator dinged again, and boots sounded on the deck. "Damn, feels like the batcave on this ship." Dan's voice projected from somewhere over his shoulder, greeted by numerous smirks and soft chuckles of laughter from passing crew members.

"Well-put." Shepard responded dryly. Something stuck out against the wall. "Dan, did you know we have a tank aboard?"

Dan seemed caught equally unaware by this facet of information, pleasant surprise melding across his face as the pair moved towards it. Shepard's hand drifted idly over the dirty-white hull for a moment, before his eyes drifted to one of its massive tires – the things were almost taller than his chin. Shock belayed, his boot found hold on the sidewall of one of the six enormous wheels, and in a combination of awkward pushing and pulling, clambered up to stand on the flat multi-panel top. His head nearly banged off a lower hanging arch molded into the bulkhead, but it was the massive gun at his feet that caught his interest. Its breech was encased in a three-sided housing, the long and wide main cannon stretching almost to the nose of the tank and followed up with a gun that was just shorter than its main – a secondary machine gun, he presumed. Either way, its muzzle was more like the gaping mouth of a rather large lion than an ordinary cannon; he could probably fit both his fists in it.

It was with only minor reservedness that he hoped he would be able to shoot it someday.

"Hey, get off that!" A short engineer shouted as he stepped out of the elevator, general annoyance plastered on the round and red face. Shepard paused for a moment, amused curiousity evident in his eyes, until the angry short man brandished a rather bulky spanner wrench and began weighing its head in his off hand. _That _certainly got him moving, though he doubted he would actually be able to be reached, and he hastily stepped off the tank, landing gracefully on the deck.

The engineer waved the wrench in what he probably considered a menacing manner, but Shepard was already walking off, eyes dialed in on the orange glow of his omnitool. "Looks like the captain wants us in the communications room." The words felt odd in his mouth.

Dan picked up on it easily. "Not used to being called upon?"

He only nodded his head. For several months _he _had been the one in charge, and Shepard was finding himself suddenly uncomfortable with the idea of being under someone else's command. Nonetheless, the elevator whirred and jarred under their feet as it rose and opened to another level mere seconds after it began – it begged the question as to why the elevator even _existed_, considering its short travel. Behind him, he knew, would be an equally-dim mess hall preceding the equally-dim medical room next to the equally-dim sleeper pod platform. _At least they have consistency_, he thought.

A winding flight of a two-segment staircase had them facing an oval-shaped command center, a beautiful hologram of the galaxy swirling – _much_ too quickly, he noted – in front of a raised command post. Hanging a hard right, he passed Doctor Chakwas, whom he had originally been surprised to see, and one young and fresh-faced marine arguing quite lively. He put on an extra burst of speed when the good doctor looked pointedly at him, as if expecting something.

"Sorry ma'am, not right now." Was all he said as he passed into the communications center. Doctor Chakwas glared half-heartedly at the back of his head as he moved.

A short descent on the raised walkway had him poised in salute in front of Captain Anderson, whom paced the elevated circular deck in front of a number of small control panels. A still-frame image of a female marine was projected from some device below, several lances of blue fire in stark contrast with the red sky that served as a backdrop.

"At ease, gentlemen." The two marines dropped their salutes, but didn't speak. "We just got this transmission in a few minutes ago, and it's not good news. It confirms what we already knew: Eden Prime is under attack." Captain Anderson came to a pause, shifting on his feel to face them with a somber expression. "By what, we don't know yet, but whatever it was hit us hard. Eden Prime is a _symbol _of humanity, that we can defend our colonies no matter the distance. I don't think I need to tell you the gravity of the situation."

Shepard nodded despite his limited knowledge on the Alliance colonies, and gestured towards the screen. "There's survivors, sir, are we pulling them out?"

The captain's mouth pulled into a slight frown. "This transmission has been looping for the past hour, we don't even know if they're still alive." Anderson shook his head tiredly – he'd been up long before departure, which had been fifteen hours ago. "I've been told there's a Prothean artifact in the colony, if it's still there. Your mission is to retrieve it, personnel recovery is considered a secondary objective. We'll be dropping you a few hundred meters from the dig-site, it's the only open drop zone for the next few kilometers. Get in, find the beacon, get out; simple as that."

Something tweaked at that in Shepard's mind, an urge borne of discontinuity, but he set it aside. "Understood, sir."

"I would have liked to know about the artifact _sooner _rather than later, but as it is we'll just have to make do. The mission is yours now, Shepard. Good luck."

* * *

"Commander Shepard, permission to come along?"

The sudden appearance of Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko caught Shepard off guard, let alone the rank tacked onto his name. The lieutenant stood before him, at ease yet stiff in typical Alliance fashion. Though his hand drifted idly about the grip of the pistol at his hip, the stock of a typical Lancer rifle stuck above his shoulder, and Shepard noted with some annoyance that the lieutenant's hair was once again far too well groomed given his posting. He could only hope that the marine's combat ability matched his personal maintenance.

"Sure." Shepard waved his hand absentmindedly, returning to the disassembled weapon in front of him as Lieutenant Alenko nodded and moved towards the gear lockers. A younger marine followed behind him, but Shepard was looking off to the other side and he passed unrecognized.

"You see this stuff they gave us?" Dan asked, shaking his head in disbelief. A sweeping gesture towards his own body indicated the armour in question. "It's too thin, I swear. Feels like a damn skin suit."

Shepard couldn't help but agree. Their own armour had been discarded mere hours after they boarded, the techs citing some regulations and other bologna as they issued the newer stuff. It was more comfortable by far, but it left a lot to be desired in terms of reassurance. "It'll be fine." He made a mental note to look into new armour later.

"Okay, yeah, _sure_ it will." Dan's dubiousness was not exactly well concealed.

"_Ground team, prepare for deployment. Have a good time, I hear there's quite the view on the surface._" The pilot's voice echoed in the bay, his lighthearted mockery falling without effect.

Lieutenant Alenko fell in line with Shepard and Dan as they moved towards the fast-descending bay door, and a marine named Jenkins joined them shortly after, much to the bemused expressions of all but one. Any objections were cut short, though, as the bay door ground against dirt and the acrid stench of a burning world filled the bay.

"Holy shit."

For the second time in less than a hour, Shepard couldn't help but agree with Dan; Eden Prime was all kinds of messed up at the moment. Smoke rose in thick clouds from a far off city, fires eating hungrily at building and vegetation alike. The same ground they descended to was charred, patches of grass blackened and windswept by dropship thrusters.

Jenkins blanched visibly as he drew his rifle, shaking for a moment before taking a deep breath. "This doesn't look like the home I left."

It was all Shepard could do to not visibly berate himself. He'd let a colony kid go on a mission on his own burning world. _Smart, Shepard, real smart._

Only a handful of moments later, they ran into their first contact. "Jenkins, what is this?" Shepard gestured with the muzzle of his rifle, pointed squarely at what might be the center mass of a bloated... _thing_.

The young marine laughed quietly before responding, still awestruck at how his home had changed. "Gas bags, sir. They're harmless as long as you don't pop them."

"Toxin gas." Alenko filled in helpfully.

"What a nice planet." Shepard responded dryly, much to Jenkins' amusement, though it quickly dissolved back into the same disheartened visage as he absorbed his homeworld. It did not go unnoticed, and Shepard took a quick step onward as he beckoned for the rest of his team. "We're on a schedule here, let's move."

They moved further down a roughly hewn path, spread in a loose wedge as they came upon massive split rocks that seemed to form some sort of gateway. Jenkins pressed on automatically, mind running on autopilot even when Shepard gave the 'all hold' motion. There was something he was hearing carried by the breeze, a fluctuating ripple of energy, and for a minute it sounded like –

"Drones! – _aagggh!_" Jenkins barely had time to scream as streams of gurgling energy washed over him, thin armour plates boiling away completely in the onslaught. A group of minute fliers rushed into view, diminutive guns chortling away before they found new targets in the rest of the squad.

The plasma fire that stitched up the ground in between the groups galvanized the rest of the squad to action, each of them diving for separate cover in the nick of time. Shepard leaned his head around the waist-high rock he ducked behind, surveying the hot zone in a heartbeat. Jenkins lay motionless in the open, maybe twenty meters away.

"Cover fire!" He barked out as he dropped his rifle and twisted out of cover, boots pounding dirt in a dead sprint. The dull thumps of Dan's automatic rifle fire behind him were perforated with the short-barrel blasts of Alenko's pistol, both focused on a flier that quickly detonated in a spectacular blossom of twisted metal and hellish fire. Nearing Jenkins, he dropped into a slide, dirt and gravel spraying out from his heels. His hands found hold on the marine's chest plate, still scalding hot to the touch as he heaved the boy behind cover and propped him up. The incessant humming of a flier grew closer, and he mentally cursed himself as he reached for the spot on his back where his rifle should have been – he had forgotten he left it behind. Instead, his hands found the bulky pistol at his hip, and it barked its short appeal as fast as its accelerator could cycle, quickly putting down the lone remaining flier.

Lieutenant Alenko practically materialized at his side, glove-less fingers pressing against the boy's exposed neck. The spark that dimmed in the man's eyes answered the unspoken question: Jenkins was dead. Cut down almost faster than he could blink, his last features – terror-stricken screams of agony – etched into the boy's face. Shepard took the time to drag his fingers over Jenkins' eyelids, sealing off the lifelessness that threatened to consume the very ground they stood upon, before standing to face his squad. The lieutenant remained on one knee, lips drawn in a tight line and eyes cast down.

"Dan, drop a beacon for the _Normandy_. Make sure we don't leave without him."

"Aye, Shepard." The disk-shaped device beeped once as it began broadcasting from the dirt beside the dead marine.

Alenko stood slowly as he glanced over the blackened armour. "Those drones cut through his shields and armour like they weren't even there."

"We'll have to be more careful." Shepard responded as he retrieved his rifle, checking it over once and brushing dirt out of the seams. "Dan and I can take it from here, if you want to stay." He added as an afterthought.

The man only scoffed at the idea, the accompanying pistol he hefted making it clear he had no such intentions. For his part, Shepard nodded as he himself took point, determined not to lose another marine to an ambush. It wasn't that he felt particularly responsible for Jenkins' death – in fact he felt little at all concerning the event, something that both bothered him and didn't – but rather that he understood the math of war: larger numbers, better chance of success, and any situation becomes much more ideal as a result.

"More gas bags, commander." Lieutenant Alenko whispered over their communications channel, not knowing that Shepard was already well aware of their presence – they exuded a certain peculiar stench when they moved. They padded through a swampy embankment, the thick green moss dampening their boot steps only to squelch and burp murky water in return. Thick trees stretched above them, their bushy canopies casting shadows even in the dying light of the sun. He imagined small wonders like these were the reason Eden Prime was considered a garden world, though the bugs did little to help that notion.

The swamp merged to an incline of desiccant soil, flanked on both sides by tall crops of sharp rock as if it were a natural walkway. They moved forward with long strides, weapons at the ready as they scanned their sectors.

"Distance to the package?" Shepard murmured over the channel.

A half dozen key presses and electronic beeps later, Alenko responded. "About two klicks out, commander."

He winced slightly; _commander _sounded far too pompous for his liking. He would have to look into that development. "Copy – "

"Contact dead ahead!" Dan called out as the trio split off into cover and the hum of drones filled the air once again.

Shepard paused behind one of the edge's rocks as he listened; the drones were definitely getting closer, he could tell as the noise increased in pitch. What he didn't understand is why it was taking so long, considering how damned fast they flew. He risked a glance out, eyes landing on the fleeing form of some armoured person. Whoever it was had a shockingly bad understanding of how camouflage worked, he thought, as he noted the pink-fringed dirty white armour they wore. The figure stumbled and tripped to their back, crawling away as the fliers closed in on them even as he swung out from cover to fire. A smattering of rounds pounded against the two drones, and they lurched before swerving into the ground with explosions of energy.

He was pleasantly surprised; at the very least, they could shoot well enough.

His consideration was cut short as he noticed two... _What the hell, those look like those synthetic things on that ship. _The only difference was that this group was moving – quickly – and was armed – heavily. The unidentified shooter, though he was fairly certain 'it' was a 'she' even at that range, was already on her feet, thin spurts of dirt going airborne beneath the boots of her quickly retreating figure. Whatever was going on, the situation was clear: a soldier needed help. He could do that, alright.

"Hit those hostiles!" The squad's weapons sounded off in smart fashion immediately after, neatly bisecting one of the thing's legs and leaving it to flail about uselessly as fluorescent white blood spurted from its body. The woman's head jerked towards them, and he could even see the whites of her widened eyes as they pushed forward with well-placed bursts of fire. Dan, off to his left, made as if he were throwing a disc, and the remaining hostile blew apart in an impressive shower of sparks and black smoke shortly after the grenade welded itself to its frame.

The now-clearly apparent woman heaved a sigh of relief as she turned to face the trio. "They nearly got me..." She shook her head as if trying to clear her thoughts. "Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams of the two-twelve." Ashley nodded towards Shepard. "You in charge here... sir?"

Shepard looked to the marines standing at his flanks as if he himself wasn't so sure. "I guess so. What happened to you?"

"Long story, sir." Her lips drew in a tight line, unwilling to elaborate further.

"Chief, we were dropped in less than fifteen minutes ago, and I've already lost one marine. Give me a rundown."

Shepard's brisk tone was not lost upon the woman, and she straightened subconsciously before rapping out a report. "The geth, sir. One minute everything was normal, the next we're fighting for our lives. We managed to get into contact with the two-thirteen; last I heard, they were pushing towards the excavation site."

_Excavation site? _The trio shared subtle glances as they processed the new information. _Probably where the artifact is. _At the very least, they were on the same train of thought, as indicated by the nod passed amongst them. He had heard of the geth, limitedly so at least, and surmised that the odd synthetics were their physical being.

"We're here looking for some sort of artifact. How far is this dig site?" Lieutenant Alenko queried, voicing their thoughts.

"Just around that bend, sir." Chief Williams stated, before decaying into a sort of hesitation. "The artifact you're looking for, I think I may know what you're talking about... But it wasn't there when I came through. They must have moved it."

Shepard groaned quietly: _Nothing can ever be simple._ He debated pressing her for more information regarding the artifact's nature, but ultimately decided against it. They had wasted enough time as is. "Understood. Alenko, call the _Normandy _and tell them to prep for one survivor. You take a hit, chief?"

Chief Williams looked towards the lieutenant, who had brought up his omnitool and begun opening a channel. She looked pensive for a moment, before setting her jaw and catching the commander's eyes, whom had begun to move away. "No sir, but with all due respect, I'm not leaving this fight."

Surprise made its mark through his otherwise bored expression, and he looked her over once as if weighing some internal strife. He nodded appreciatively: Better numbers, better chances. Besides, she could shoot alright. "Have it your way, chief. I expect you to keep up." Having a woman on his squad felt... _different_, but not explicitly bad. Foremost, he was worried she would do something stupid. He chalked it up to being a relatively unusual situation, for better or for worst, and pushed it out of his mind as the four of them moved along.

Four sets of boots clapped against old metal surfaces as they came upon a circular and stepped platform. The metals themselves were borne with the deep scars of age, their surfaces set upon with oxidation and discoloration, and it was at once apparent to Shepard that this was the dig site in question.

"They moved it." He stated blankly.

"The question is, to where?" Dan offered up, brow creased in curiousity.

"I... don't know, sir. There's a research camp just up the ridge, there might be something we can use to find out." Williams volunteered.

Shepard nodded his assent, and the group made their way up the uncomfortably steep pathway. _Whatever this place had been_, he thought, _there was certainly a lot of foot traffic. _Indeed there had been, and unfamiliar three-toed prints appeared the most recently set. He cleared his throat to voice his concern, but was stopped as they came across something immediately more pressing.

"What... the _hell _are those?" Dan asked, slack-jawed and thoroughly unsettled by the devices ten meters away. Black smoke billowed past a group of three-legged spires from an adjacent cluster of pre-fabs, masking their burden for only a moment. Hanging from the top of one, speared through by the abdomen as fluid dripped down the length of the peak, was a _human_. Shepard felt bile begin to rise in his stomach, and took a deep breaths to quell it.

As if in answer, one of the tall spikes shuddered once before retracting into itself, bringing the body closer to the ground as the group hesitantly came nearer. The final segment of the spike pulled back through the corpse, a massive gaping hole in the body the only indication of it once being present. The wound went mostly unnoticed – what was of somewhat more concern to him was the body itself.

They were _glowing._

Strips and specks of blue-white light radiated on the now ashen-gray skin, tendon-like structures formed by glowing tubes embossed on the rapidly-decaying flesh. Segmented pipelines fed into its abdomen where the wound festered before converting rather rapidly to a sort of ring-like device. Worst of all was the face; eyes replaced with perfectly round glowing orbs set in metallic sockets, the skull split at the brow and cheekbone to accommodate the settings. Snake-like tubes burrowed below their eye sockets, and any remnants of hair or ears or even their gender were gone, replaced by the smooth gray flesh.

They were also _alive, _and rushing towards them with an awkward gait, long claw-like digits flexing wildly.

"Put them down." Shepard muttered, apparent disgust lacing his voice. He spoke with no small amount of sympathy – these were living beings, at one point, now only brutal weapons of some macabre design. They were husks of former men and women, children maybe, and he felt each round that bit into the diseased bodies as if it were his own.

They came apart easy, black fluids seeping from bullet wounds like oil, and were once again lifeless as Shepard crouched low over one. Its ribcage was split open, electricity arcing over shredded conduits even as he pushed a finger between where the thing's fourth and fifth rib would be. It was hollow.

"A husk of a corpse." Shepard stated simply as he retraced his digits, wiping the tar-like fluid off on the grass below it. He cocked his head slightly as he regarded the downed figure. There was no life in its eyes anymore; it wasn't human. "Assume hostile until further notice."

Chief Williams had broken off to one of the pre-fabs, hunched over the control pad to its door. "The security locks are engaged..." She muttered, before turning to face an expectant Shepard to clarify. "Someone's inside this unit!"

That certainly got his attention, and he quickly closed the distance between them with Dan and Alenko following. The security lock itself proved to be little more than a bump in the process, and the door eased open as the system shut down.

"Doctor Warren? Is that you?" Williams stepped through first, pistol lowering as she recognized one of the pre-fab's inhabitants. Another huddled in the corner, head buried in the protective embrace of his arms. Quiet mutterings from the discontented man brushed across Shepard's ears, but he turned away to face the the pair of woman whom were then exchanging pleasantries.

"Chief, we're on a tight schedule." He reminded her.

The woman, Dr. Warren, seemed to have an inkling of an idea of the situation. "Are you here for the beacon we dug up?" She asked.

_A beacon?.. _"Correct. It's been moved, though. Any idea where it might be?"

Much to his relief, the doctor _did _have a rather good idea. "Yes, yes. While we were... stuck in here, I saw a group of those _things _moving it through the camp. There was a turian in charge, I think."

"A turian?" Alenko beat him to it. "Why would they work with the geth?"

Shepard picked up on the note of surprise in his voice, and couldn't help but feel the same. From what he could tell, they were autonomous synthetic beings – not exactly trustworthy. "Doesn't matter, we need to get to that beacon. Doctor, do you know where they were headed?"

She thought for a moment. "If I had to guess, I'd say they were going to the spaceport. There's a gondola that will take you straight to it if you keep on the path. Good luck, commander."

He nodded his thanks before they moved out of the pre-fab and back into the camp. Behind him, Dan tossed a sedative to the doctor as he gestured towards the remaining man huddled in the corner, and stepped off quickly to catch up.

A gunshot rolled over the hillside from the direction of the gondola, sending the squad into relative cover behind tall rocks and pre-fab wreckage. Rifle in hand, Shepard awaited the expected impacts of even more, but none came. The echoes of the shot died quietly on the hills, instead. A round of muddled expressions were exchanged as they stood from cover, weapons at the ready as they crested the hill before a low valley. Rather than gunfire, they were met with the piteous moans of a half-dozen of the since-named 'husks', whom turned to run at them with no indifference as to their survivability.

The squad didn't need to be told; they simply opened fire. A trio of assault rifles drummed in rhythmic bursts, a lone heavy pistol tolling like a gong as it took one of the husks through the abdomen, and it burst in a dazzling cloud of electricity. Shepard's own rounds joined Williams' as they neatly bisected one at the waist, leaving it to topple uselessly as they engaged new targets. The rifle kicked lightly against the pit of his shoulder, a burst of fire obliterating a portion of one of the husk's skulls as it did.

His heatsink ejected itself just after the last husk fell, venting hot gas and completely obscuring his vision. An enemy weapon joined the fray, and his shields splashed as they fended off a handful of rounds he barely saw coming. Nonetheless, they elicited pained grunts before he slid behind cover, hand wiping at the fog that coated his visor courtesy of the rifle. _Whoever designed this whole heatsink thing really ought to be hit, _he thought as he stared impatiently at the still-venting weapon. The rest of the squad mopped up the geth that appeared quickly, concentrated fire making the platforms easy picking once their shields dropped.

"Holy hell, is that a _ship_?" Williams gaped, for good reason too. Several miles beyond the gondola was a indescribably _gargantuan_ cuttlefish-like ship, massive finger-like appendages extending from its body like an uncurled fist whose digits dug into the ground. Its aft stretched under a tapering plate like the tail of a lizard, subtle flexing gaps in the armour burning fiery red as forks of similarly-coloured lightning jumped between sections of its own carapace.

The rest of the squad only looked on in awe at the massive construction as the air around them shook with intense energy, and it rose in the air, furious energy crackling all over it before it was swallowed whole by the burnt orange cloud layer. Shepard whistled low as he slowly moved on – _How did a ship that size even _land _on a planet? _He shook it off; they had more important matters to attend to.

"A turian? Single shot to the head, shields probably didn't even register." Alenko spoke when the group moved near the corpse of a male turian who was sprawled out face-first on the deck plating of the gondola.

Chief Williams shook her head. "Geth don't execute people – well, they don't let you surrender, either way. This is too neat for them."

"I-it was the other t-turian..." A man – most likely a dock worker, Shepard figured, given the hard-helmet he wore – slowly rose behind a stack of large shipping crates a few meters off. Shepard's pistol was up in a flash as he spun on a foot, sighting in directly below the man's sternum. "Don't shoot! Please, don't shoot!"`

Shepard eased his finger off the trigger, but kept it raised. "Tell me what happened here, and I'll consider it." His threat was, of course, _mostly _empty, but the man nonetheless blanched as he stepped out from behind the boxes.

"My name is Powell, and I-I was taking a nap behind these crates, and when I woke up, geth and those _creatures _were swarming all over. I... I didn't know what to do, s-so I stayed here and hid – "

Williams cut him off brusquely. "You survived because you were _sleepy_?! I should..." Her words degenerated into a single aggravated growl of contempt.

Shepard waved her off. "Cut to the chase. What happened to the beacon? I was told it would be here."

The dockworker gulped. "O-of course... That damn beacon has been nothing but trouble since we found it." His chest heaved as he took a deep breath. "There was another turian, that one called him 'Saren' I think. He shot him in the back after those synthetics made off with the beacon."

"Where did they take it?" Shepard prompted.

Powell looked off to his side at a waiting gondola station. "They loaded it onto one of those supply trains and left, after that I don't know. I... I can't stay here, I need to get away from all this."

The dockworker was already making his way off of the station before he could respond, and so he let him go without further questioning. A wide supply train appeared waiting far to their side, several dividers on its mass that would provide adequate cover should it be needed. Returning his pistol to his hip, he uploaded the location to the_ Normandy _and boarded the gondola with the rest of his team.

_His team? _

_His _team._.. _he mulled the words over as he leaned against an onboard crate. There was something peculiarly satisfying about the words, though they were hardly applicable. It was a one-time mission, and even then Chief Williams and Lieutenant Alenko were outside his command – he could only imagine what they'd do if he told them he wasn't really a commander. Dan was the only one that he considered 'his team', either way, and resigned himself to be happy with that. Perhaps the next time they were brought out of _storage_ they'd have that chance.

Chief Williams regarded him past crossed arms. "Something on your mind, commander?"

"Nothing." He lied easily, perhaps too easily if he thought about it. Turning, he didn't see the bemused smirk that passed over her face, nor did he register the sigh that passed her lips. "Coming up on the station. Weapons hot, there's bound to be more."

Indeed, there had been more, at least a half-dozen so. Even caught by surprise as they were, the geth platforms had reacted quickly, raining fire on the gondola platform as half their number fell to a volley of accurate fire. Unfortunately, that was not the overarching concern on the station.

"It's a bomb, commander. Big one, too." Lieutenant Alenko knelt before a man-sized device, calling up a holographic interface as he began his intrusion into its countdown software. Shepard took a moment to look over the explosive, though it would be readily apparent if they came across any more: four hexagonal supports spaced evenly encircling a meter-long cylinder that comprised the main explosive – hard to miss.

"Commander, this bomb's yield wouldn't be nearly enough to level this station. I think there might be more of them around."

Alenko nodded as he stood, agreeing with Chief Williams' analysis. "She's right. This one was pretty easy to disable, though, so it shouldn't be a problem. We'll have to be on the lookout though."

Shepard frowned. "If the others are guarded as well as this one was, that could be trouble. How much time do we have?"

"Minutes, commander." The lieutenant responded.

Dan scoffed humourously. "Nothing can ever be easy, can it?"

Shepard shook his head; the last time something was easy was... well, a long time ago. He motioned for the squad to move out, and they fell in an easy wedge as they advanced up a high-incline ramp leading to a raised rectangle-shaped ring of walkways. Geth were positioned on both sides of the thin gantries; _Nothing is ever easy._ "Dan, Alenko, you two take the other side. Williams, on me!" He barked out, and the team split without hesitation.

Weapons fire opened on both sides, the loud chattering of assault rifles mingling with sharp cracks of sniper rifles and short-barreled pistols. One such sniper rifle round impacted inches away from Shepard's helmet, taking a sizable chunk of an overly thick support beam with it, and he rolled behind cover as another rifle shot rang out. Mechanical joints whirred far too close for his comfort, and he unleashed a dozen rounds from his pistol around the corner. The sound of sheering metal and the crash of the downed platform gratified his use, and he grimaced lightly; hand to hand with a geth was _not _something he'd like to have a go with at that point in time. His eyes descended on a familiar cylindrical unit, and he put out an extra burst of rounds as he called for suppressing fire.

The clean white holographic interface was confusing, at best, but he waded through it nonetheless. An oddly familiar mass of scrolling packets streamed over the interface, pausing intermittently, and he realized the weapon's interface was little more than an updated version of one they'd trained on as part of the _N7 _program – Perhaps it had human origins. His fingers danced about speedily, pinging and sectioning off numerous bytes of data as the system attempted to compensate for their loss. Hacking these systems wasn't so much actual intrusion as it was overburdening its processing core with self-generated loss requests, forcing it to focus more on the missing packets than the program until it shutdown. Thankfully, they did not possess a significant amount of memory bandwidth, and within moments the screen dimmed and flickered off, accompanying the dying beep of its countdown timer. _Two down._

"_Commander, that's the second bomb I've defused. I'm betting there's another, though._" Lieutenant Alenko's voice was clear over the channel.

"Understood. Keep looking, we found one over here as well."

* * *

"All targets eliminated, commander. Found another bomb, as well. Pretty sure that was the last of them." Williams' report was sharp and punctual, if somewhat distracted sounding.

"Good work, chief." Shepard replied, before looking over at the two marines patrolling their perimeter. "Alenko, Dan, form up." Boots thudded on the spaceport's open-air deck as they approached past the Prothean beacon, a five meter tall tower that tapered at the sides mounted onto a quarter-circle setting. Its sides were unusually dark – he had half been expecting more lights.

"I just hailed the _Normandy_, commander, they should be along any minute to pick us and the package up." The lieutenant shifted uncomfortably before continuing. "Apparently that turian back there was a Spectre, and the captain isn't too happy he's dead."

"Would have helped if we'd known he was on the planet." Dan suggested, completely unconcerned with the agent's fate.

"Yeah, well, I also asked about the other one, 'Saren'? Apparently he's a Spectre too." Alenko added.

Shepard removed his helmet as he rubbed at the corners of his eyes. He knew what the Spectres were, loosely – really not much more than intergalactic police whom answered only to the Council, a small body of species representative of the foremost races of the galaxy – and, as would follow, understood exactly _why _the Alliance and Council would not be happy to hear it; rogue agents were never welcome topics.

Yawning tiredly, he rose from his seat on a short supply crate to look around the spaceport. "They can handle the – Williams!"

The chief was being pulled into the air as if something had hooked her under her sternum, limbs flailing uselessly as she rose closer to the beacon that was then wreathed in green aura and pulsing with the same sickly coloured energy. He barreled past the lieutenant in a spurt of energy, intent on reaching the chief before he lost _another _marine. A heavy hand found hold along her side, and he twisted and pushed her bodily from the beacon.

The energy pulling her up snapped back like a whipcord as she fell to the deck, suddenly focused on its newer, much closer target. He could feel some force compressing his body as it tugged him along, and unwitting images seared in front of his mind's eye. The stench of burning flesh and vegetation and the silent screams of trillions flooded his senses as he came within arm's reach of the madly-shaking beacon. His world went black, replaced by a flurry of images of burning worlds and black smoke, crumbling cities and blood-bathed streets.

The last thing he heard before the beacon exploded was one long, thunderous and soul-shaking horn whose very nature seemed to herald doom.

* * *

**February 21st, 2183  
****The Citadel  
****1200 Citadel Time / 0400 Earth Time****  
**

Days used to be pleasant. They used to be about long stakeouts and repetitive reports, high-speed pursuits and quick trigger fingers. Most often they'd stop the bad guy before they could make their escape, too. Life as an investigator of the Citadel Security, or C-Sec, department wasn't exactly _lavish_, but it certainly afforded their own a career of adventure and excitement, a welcome commodity in otherwise dull Citadel life.

It was all going perfectly, too, until one scrappy salarian doctor crossed his desk. He would get that miserable –

"Vakarian!"

The growl that shook Garrus Vakarian from his recollections belonged to none other than his boss, one Venari Pallin. More commonly he was known as 'Executor Pallin', or a slew of other less appropriate names.

"Detective Vakarian, I will not have my men _lounging _about on the job. We are _turians_, not miscreant humans." The executor's mandibles flexed in what he supposed was a menacing manner as he gestured towards Garrus' feet, which were crossed and kicked up on the edge of his desk.

A stack of data-pads went flying as Garrus practically jumped in his desk chair, prompting his quick paced retrieval of them. The executor was poor enough company on a good day, there was no reason to give him extra ammunition. "My apologies, executor. I was thinking."

Executor Pallin stopped himself short in mid-syllable; he _did _pay him to think, actually, he could hardly say otherwise. He resigned to merely glare at the younger detective, instead, as he tossed a new data-pad towards him. "You've got a new case. Do try to not mess this one up as well as your last one, Vakarian. I'm sure you remember, what with all the _thinking _you do."

Garrus grimaced as he recalled. Black market trading, questionable morals, organ reproduction and trafficking, even hostages at one point, and for all that, the culprit had still gotten away. The weeks after it had been thus far monotonous, mountains of paperwork at the desk job he was unofficially demoted to. _One scrappy salarian doctor... _"How could I forget?" He asked, mandibles twisted in a sardonic smile. Executor Pallin only berated him for wasting time before taking his leave, leaving Garrus to stare at and ponder the contents of the data-pad in front of him. _Might as well take a look,_ he thought, and powered it up.

… And immediately groaned loudly, followed by some choice curse words that would no doubt have the executor breathing down his neck had he heard them. The header of the document was filled with basic information, including the suspect's name and charges, neither of which gave him any comfort: Saren Arterius, for treason. The problem with this originated in that the suspect was a Spectre, and as such was practically untouchable; everything about him, everything he did, even where he likes to take his ale was classified. Put bluntly, it was an impossible case full of red tape and roadblocks, which the executor would have known from the get-go.

He suspected that was _exactly _why he was given it.

Heaving a sigh, he reached for the interface of his terminal, and was halfway through typing in a search parameter before he paused in thought. Citadel records and other official sources were classified, but surely there were other less... _scrupulous _contacts he could lean on for information. A quick search query brought up a list of a half-dozen external contacts, seedy people that C-Sec had all but pardoned in exchange for their future cooperation.

He grinned as he stood from his chair, holstering his pistol at his side and grabbing his data-pad. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad.

Perhaps.

* * *

**February 21st, 2183  
****Aboard the SSV _Normandy _SR1  
****0520 Earth Time****  
**

A fiery sky rose above umber ruins, warbling sirens sparring with the constant drum roll of weapons fire for dominance under the rising sun. It was a massive one, at that, several times the size of Earth's sun, and glowing like an enraged god. The ground shook, clumps of sod and rocks alike jumping to its beat, and something so extremely heavy landed behind him that he swore it would shear the ground on which he stood in half. He turned to look, only to be met with an indescribably scorching beam of energy. He could feel it, could see his own skin peeling back over his muscle before it too withered and fell away. His eyes were dry, chafing in their sockets as they listed about aimless and frantic, even his nose and mouth felt dry, a cotton tongue wetting chalky teeth as he screamed noiselessly.

It was his own screams that woke Shepard in cold sweat, chest heaving like a bellows as he jerked up from the numb polymer bed. The abnormal darkness, the familiar metal plating and concave walls eased the majority of his tension, but it was not until he saw the familiar glowing _SR1 _indication on the sliding door that he felt truly reassured; he had not been frozen, not yet, and he was certainly not being burned alive.

… Not yet.

"Doctor... Doctor Chakwas!" A familiar feminine voice rang out in the close medical room of the _Normandy_, much to the discomfort of Shepard's throbbing head. Short heels clicked off the deck as the all-too-welcome doctor stepped through the bay.

"Well well, commander, you had us worried. Or at least, Chief Williams here was. Feel like sharing what you were dreaming about?" Dr. Chakwas' voice was lined with the same easy regality she was known for, though she was buried in some medical report brought up on her omnitool. "I picked up on unusual brainwaves while you were out." She responded when a crooked eyebrow prompted her to continue.

He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "Nothing to worry about. How long have I been out?" If the steady pulse of aching misery in his _everything_ was any indication, it had been at least several hours, something that was only confirmed by the doctor moments after.

"Twelve hours, give or take." Dr. Chakwas paused before, mulling over her charts before looking back up.

The breath had barely left her mouth when Ashley squirmed and cut in, speaking rapidly. "Some kind of security field activated when I went near that beacon, you had to... well, you _did _push me out of the way. It was my fault, commander, I shouldn't have done it and..." Her jaw snapped shut on her spiel as she realized how she must have looked.

Such fears were only compounded as Shepard's incalculable eyes met hers, holding her gaze for several seconds before he replied flatly. "No, you shouldn't have. It was an asinine and brainless thing to do – "

"_Commander!_" Dr. Chakwas' high British tones cut him off as he paused to yawn, even as Ashley's typically calm visage faulted into a frown. "_Really_, how she could have known? It's a Prothean artifact, very few people have ever been near one, let alone _seen _one. I should think a man of your character would appreciate the unknown. _Really _John, that was – "

A thoroughly amused smirk slipped across Shepard's face, growing to a full grin as he held his finger up to the doctor. "Can I finish my sentence?" The doctor's eyes narrowed preceding a curt nod, which only served to augment his chuckling. "Good, good. As I was saying, that was an asinine and brainless and – _please let me finish doctor – _completely stupid thing to do..." He paused as he looked from the seething gaze of the motherly doctor, instead gazing upon the utterly uncomfortable form of Ashley as she stared miles beyond him; he couldn't help it, Dr. Chakwas exuded an aura that tended to soften even the most short-spoken man. "... But I would have done the exact same thing. No hard feelings, chief."

The doctor appeared to be stuck in an infinite cycle between disapproval and ill-concealed humour, but the chief didn't seem to share either of those traits, though a tinge of color did grace her high cheekbones, and the frown didn't look quite so harsh afterward.

Smirk still plastered over his face, Shepard continued, albeit on a more serious note. "Where's the package now?"

The chief crossed her arms and leaned back, the deep chocolate of her eyes narrowing as if evaluating him. "_You _blew it up, _sir_."

"Did I now?" The corners of his mouth turned down as he considered it, thought it was not necessarily a movement borne from any distress. Things had a habit of blowing up when he was around, he couldn't really explain it. "That's... unfortunate."

"I'm afraid it gets worse."

"Captain Anderson!" The room was a flurry of movement as both Shepard and Chief Williams came to attention in the presence of the captain, the former only getting one leg off the bed before he was firmly pushed back onto the bed by a certain haughty doctor.

"Doctor Chakwas, Chief Williams." The captain was hardly one for formalities, and it appeared he was in need of privacy as he glanced perhaps not-so-subtly at the door. Whatever the case, the two women filed out quickly, Dr. Chakwas muttering something about being kicked out of her own office, and only Shepard and Captain Anderson remained.

"Shepard, this isn't good." Captain Anderson began, running a hand through his close cropped hair as he leaned against an adjacent gurney-bed. "The turian you found was one of the Council's Spectres. They're not happy, Shepard, and they're looking for someone to blame."

Shepard's forehead crinkled as he considered the implications of such; given that he was the one to find the body, he was most likely a prime suspect. A small note of relief fluttered across his mind as he realized something. "Check the suit recorders, I didn't shoot him."

The captain nodded dismissively. "I know, I've already reviewed the footage. The dockworker, Powell, he was brought in for questioning too. He maintains that it was Saren, which is... problematic." He said, one arm crossed under the other as his fingers danced across his temple.

"You know him?" Shepard asked.

"We have our history." Captain Anderson responded after a few moments of deliberation. His tone suggested it was not open for discussion. "I believe you, Shepard, but Saren is the Council's top agent. They're not going to take kindly to charges of treason, especially if we tell them he's allied himself with the geth. There's that, and then there's the beacon; it's considered a crime to destroy any Prothean artifact in Citadel space."

"I hardly had a choice." He mused bluntly.

"I know. All I'm saying is that it doesn't put humanity in a good light." Anderson shook his head slowly, chuckling low as he did. "Things always seem to go wrong when you're involved, Shepard. I'm starting to wonder if you're the reason why."

Shepard met the man's humour with a sheepish grin, shrugging innocently as he pushed himself into a more comfortable sitting position. "Certainly seems that way. Could do without the explosions for once, though."

The captain nodded thoughtfully. "Speaking of the beacon, I'm sure you're already aware of its demise." Shepard acknowledged with a short grunt. "Prothean beacons are designed to transfer information directly to their user's head, Shepard. I'm guessing your physiology made something in the device go haywire and malfunction."

Anderson rubbed at his temples and exhaled heavily before continuing. "I need to ask you: Do you remember anything from just before the explosion?"

The same heat from his dream prickled at his skin, a soul-searing heat that gnawed its way into the marrow of his bones. A low and foreboding note shook his consciousness, and he pulled his eyes from the captain's as hauntingly familiar images flashed beyond his vision.

"I... don't know. It felt like some kind of warning, but I can't understand any of it." He smirked. "Probably just a bad dream."

The captain nodded understandingly as he smoothed his jacket, standing before addressing him once more. "We'll be entering Citadel space in a few minutes. You may be called upon to testify at the inquest, so be ready."

Shepard nodded, though glumly; Politics weren't something he was terribly fond of. A question rose in his consciousness. "Captain." Anderson froze mid-step, turning on his heel to face him from the doorway. "Why am I being called a commander?"

Deep baritone chuckles rang out in the close room, Anderson's typical calm demeanour flanged with some essence of mirth. "Admiral Hackett's doing, as official as it'll ever be." When Shepard's face didn't show the approval the captain was looking for, he continued in afterthought. "If you're worried about it, don't be. You still have no personnel file." He took his leave when Shepard nodded his agreement.

Shepard's legs swung off the bed as he rolled his neck and shoulders, bones crackling their gratification as he did. Staying 'off the radar' was important for his unit's functionality, but after innumerable combat operations he couldn't help but feel he had gotten the short end of the stick in the deal, and so it was difficult to be truly pleased with the results – a small part of him had hoped their veil of secrecy was soon to fall. After searching the nearby area for anything that may have been brought in with him, he turned to leave the medical bay, pleased to see that Dr. Chakwas was not waiting in ambush for him as he left.

Instead, it seemed, Chief Williams was performing that duty. "Commander, do you have a moment?"

She was standing stiff near the elevator bulkhead, a purposeful several feet from the mess hall tables. He snorted silently – despite her best efforts, she was looking anything but relaxed; the bun her hair was pulled in looked extraordinarily tight, she was shifting her weight between feet every few seconds, and the way her nails dug into her arms betrayed any notion that she was anything _but _uncomfortable.

"Shoot." He stated bluntly.

"Yes, sir, it's just that... I heard about Private Jenkins from some of the crew." She paused as if waiting for an indication that he'd heard her.

He nodded somberly. To be honest, he didn't know the kid, and as such it was hard to pull up any particular emotion on the subject. Certainly, there was always the regret that a marine had died under his command, but apart from that? He had nothing, and so he kept it simple. "Jenkins was a good marine, he'll be missed."

Chief Williams' lip twitched in discomfort. "I know, and that's what makes me feel guilty about being his replacement. I can't help but think that if Jenkins had survived, I wouldn't be here."

A brow crinkled together as Shepard thought about it. The two incidents were completely unrelated, and if anything, Jenkins being alive would have furthered her chance of survival. "Put it out of your mind, chief. You had no role in his death. I didn't know you had been transferred, though." That struck him as odd; certainly the _Normandy _would need have needed a replacement, but there was hardly any reason to pull a colonial marine for that duty. He shook his mind clear of the obfuscation. It was Anderson's ship, so it was his decision.

"Yes, sir, just now actually."

"The _Normandy _gained a valuable crew member then." Shepard checked the time on his omnitool, the inconspicuous movement no doubt registering in Chief Williams' mind. "Captain's waiting for me." With a nod, he moved off with speedy grace.

Chief Williams' eyes trailed after him, if only for a moment. There was something decidedly odd about the commander, she decided.

* * *

**February 21st, 2183  
****The Citadel, Lower Wards  
****1330 Citadel Time / 0530 Earth Time****  
**

"Look, it's completely off-record, no ties back to C-Sec. All I need is one tiny bit of information." The volus in front of Garrus was, as their species often is, completely unreadable behind the impassive breather helmet. Several uncomfortable seconds of silence passe, during which he could only postulate as to his contact's decision. "I'll pay double the norm, too." He added as an afterthought – he could practically feel his bank account wince.

"Very well, Vakarian. – _kssshhk _– I'll tell you what I know – _kssshhk _– _after _the transaction is complete." Smugness practically oozed out of the volus' vocalizer.

A half-dozen keys on his omnitool later and a sizable portion of his account was transferred to a shell account, which would no doubt disappear after several subsequent transactions. If he thought about, the more it seemed crazy. He had planted his ear firmly to the ground near Chora's Den, a well-known hub of dingy men and somewhat illicit activities, and had overheard some mercenary team's conversation – directional audio pickups were useful like that – regarding a large reward and rather low-key target. While death threats weren't exactly unusual in the Wards, such factors all lining up at the same time had more than piqued his curiousity.

Seeing the notification of a new payment, the volus bowed a hair in thanks. "Good. Fist is your culprit."

"What does he get for threatening a doctor?" Garrus pressed, arms crossed.

"_Kssshhk – _I do not know. However – _kssshhk – _he has recently made an enemy – _ksshhk – _of my... _employer."_

Garrus' jaw dropped fractionally in surprise. To betray the Shadow Broker, a nefarious mastermind of the information trade and other unlawful services, was plain _stupid_. Then again, Fist, being only a low-level pawn of the Citadel's crime statistics, probably wasn't very smart to begin with. "Sounds like someone spooked him, someone like Saren." He thought aloud.

"_Kssshhk – _I deal in information, Vakarian, – _kssshhk – _ not speculation." The volus gestured towards the door as he wobbled back to his desk.

The informant's attitude went completely unnoticed by Garrus. He didn't have anything solid, not yet, but there _was _something big going on. A number of firefights had broke out across the lower Wards in a definite pattern early in the day as well, and that paired with the hit put out by Fist was more than enough to send the detective part of his brain into overdrive.

As he stepped into the artificial sunlight of the Citadel, he half-smiled grimly. Saren was up to something, he knew it, and he was going to find out exactly what.

* * *

Unfortunately, Fist was not an easy man to reach, and that was fact even when there wasn't a hulking krogan warlord waiting to put his shotgun to the man's head. Garrus had been completely unable to reach him, in person or even through extranet messages; the man was spooked like _hell_.

That left Garrus without much of anything to go on. A turian meal bar sat unwrapped and mostly untouched in front of him as he pondered his next course of action from the comfort of an eatery table. He was a damned fine investigator, he knew that, but this case was a bit like swimming up river rapids. A long whoosh of air escaped his lips as he rubbed at the corners of his eyes, absentmindedly pawing at the data pad that contained his case notes. Readouts of recent illicit activity that he had been following up on winked into life on the screen, and his hand paused as he looked it over again. _There's a connection between these, I know it... _he thought as a long talon-like finger traced over the words. There had been an 'accident' at one of the Citadel's trash incinerators – an unidentified turian had been caught in it, and the remains of a middle-aged quarian had been found several meters ahead of the turian – only ash and trace samples of DNA remained.

He huffed as he scrolled to a new report. A firefight had broken out in the wards, or at least, there had been gunshots. His finger strayed to the key that would flush the report away, but paused as he read further. _Quarian _blood had been found at the scene, only tiny amounts, but enough for the scanners to pick up on. He drew the report up from before: A quarian had met their demise in the incinerator, and then barely half an hour later another quarian's blood is found in the wards. Garrus' beady blue-gray pupils tightened, the small irises floating on mattes of black. He checked the timestamps; sure enough, it lined up. There was more than one quarian caught up in the mess.

Another icon blinked on his omnitool – a personal message. He very nearly ignored it, only deciding to view it when he had exhausted his reports further. At once, he was glad he had; it was a message from an old acquaintance, one Doctor Chloe Michel. A grimace fluttered across Garrus' face as he thought of her – she always seemed to have a _thing _for him, and while she was by no means a bad character to him, he was a same-species-only kind of turian.

For a moment, that changed, and he swore he would have kissed her at that very moment if she were there. Her message was simple and straight to the point: she had treated a very suspicious quarian whom had suffered a gunshot wound, and despite her very insistent nature, had learned nothing of its cause nor reason. He smirked as he read the last line, a brief note suggesting they should catch up some time.

Another message landed in his inbox, and he was glad for a reason not to respond to the doctor's kindly invitation. Faster than ever before, his mood of jubilee was uprooted when he read the message was from Executor Pallin, demanding he be met at the Citadel Tower. For a second, he debated simply ignoring it for the time being and going to meet Dr. Michel, but stubbornly shook off the idea. Orders were orders, and he'd follow them to the 'T'. He always had.

* * *

**February 21st, 2183  
****Aboard the SSV _Normandy _SR1, Serpent Nebula  
****0530 Earth Time****  
**

Shepard was thoroughly awestruck at the sight that drifted out from behind thick clouds of star dust tinged purple in the light. A massive structure like a Harebell flower, convex petals radiating outward from a wide torus structure, floated amidst the clouds. Yellow light burned against the dark hull in neat grids – lights, cities, an entirely live space station. Hundreds upon hundreds of ships of all sizes swarmed over and around it, tiny flickers of thrusters blinking against the darkness of space. A simply monstrous ship, its main spinal cannon more like a gaping maw which shark-like fins were borne from on all sides, slowly waded through space as the _Normandy _passed her in the opposite direction.

"The Citadel..." Shepard breathed. Never before had he seen such a feat of architecture, not even the Arcturus Station could compare – in fact, he imagined the Arcturus Station would be dwarfed a dozen times over by the size of the Citadel.

Lieutenant Alenko, manning the co-pilot seat, whistled lowly as one of the Citadel's five petals completely dominated the _Normandy'_s forward view screen. Apparently this would be his first visit as well.

"Citadel Control, this is the SSV _Normandy_, requesting clearance for landing." The helmsman spoke over the ship's communications suite. Shepard hadn't really met the man himself, one Jeffrey Moreau, but had still been subjected to the man's somewhat poor sense of humour via the ship's intercom. According to Anderson, the man preferred being called 'Joker', and while he was an excellent pilot, he was also particularly fond of testing the captain's nerve.

The rest of the communique was pushed to the back of Shepard's awareness, content rather to look out upon the vastness of space.

* * *

The Citadel was as glamorous as it was rank, as sophisticated as it was not, and somehow both everything Shepard expected and everything he didn't. He certainly hadn't expected to be needled by one overly aspiring Ambassador Donald Udina, that was for certain, and it was with no small amount of ire did the _Normandy _group leave his office, no matter how well they all concealed it.

And yet, the sights that surrounded the newcomers were more than enough to put the thoughts of one measly man out of their minds. The ring that the Citadel was based appeared even wider on the inside than from space, housing hundreds of clusters of clean white buildings shuffled against its walls. Gently sloping bridges crossed over a gurgling river of dark water, connecting the sides of the area that the wide body of flowing water had divided. There was even thick vegetation that lined its banked, idyllic flowers of a rainbow of colors poking out from the thick grasses.

As the air car rose above the lowest layer of the Presidium, the ten kilometer wide ring that served as a connector for the individual petals that housed the Wards of the station, he realized he may have (somehow) underestimated the spaciousness of the interior. The mere fact that they had to use an air car _inside _the ring was baffling, and adding to that, the station appeared to have a fully sculpted _river _along its arc. The inhabitants of the station had at least been ordinary enough – chiefly asari and turians, with a fair number of humans and a smattering of volus.

Looking out one of the dark windows of the vehicle, Shepard couldn't help but think back over his years. From a kid on the banks of... _Where? _A drift of cold fear slipped down his spine as he desperately tested his recollection. _Twenty... Twenty? Boston? _A recollection jarred his mind as suddenly as the fit had came on, flashes of a red-lit city under a night sky illuminated in sickly yellow fire thatechoed across his vision when he closed his eyes. Blood splatters against a clean white wall, scorching embers of a ruined home drifted amidst white ash, swallowed whole by a crackling blue energy that imploded under the weight of a hundred shadowy bodies, a silent film of bygone time that he either couldn't remember or subconsciously chose not to.

"We're here, commander." Chief Williams' voice matched the curiousity on her face as she looked him over. The shadow of another air car passed over their own, and for a fraction of a moment, the commander appeared visibly distraught, worry sown into a wrinkled brow. When the light returned to the cabin, Shepard was already climbing out of the vehicle behind Dan, typical unwavering calm once more masking his features.

"What is it we're here for again?" Lieutenant Alenko asked as he checked the weapons on their mounts.

Chief Williams answered quickly, though she still eyed Shepard suspiciously. "C-Sec's investigation of Saren; they're probably waiting, commander."

* * *

"Give me _one more day_, Saren is up to something and I can prove it!" Garrus spoke exasperatedly. As it turned out, his gut feeling was correct: the executor had called him up to personally close his investigation, not to mention the salvo of hardly subtle jeers at his expensive.

Executor Pallin snorted loudly. "Ha! And until then, I should just let you continue making a _fool _of my department? I do not think so, _Detective _Vakarian." The older turian turned on one foot and began his descent of one of the many staircases of the Citadel Tower. He barely made it a single step before he appeared to remember something, and turned to face the investigator, a smug smile on his face. "I shall have to submit your performance... or lack thereof, to the board, Vakarian. C-Sec investigators are expected to maintain _utmost _investigative skill, after all."

The threat was empty, Garrus knew that – hell, they probably _both _knew that – but nonetheless it was all he could do to not firmly boot the senior officer down the staircase he so pompously stood upon. Seething, he wholly collapsed onto a nearby bench facing a copse of orange-violet leaved trees. The trees were illuminated, thin white lights casting shadows on distant walls and décor from below, a testament to the lavishness the Council and the 'higher ups' enjoyed. Around them, a half dozen individuals of various species conversed in low tones.

"... all I'm saying, Shepard, is that you can't expect the Council to prosecute one of their own." A man flanked by three marines, two male and the other not, stepped self-assuredly around the greenery on his way to the Council Chambers, an odd destination in its own right.

The man motioned dismissively as they neared, and the trio behind him fell silent. _Humans... Must be Alliance._ Garrus mused as he returned to his reckoning, before the realization that he had heard, or at least read, the name 'Shepard' on one of his investigation's data-pads. He was up and on his feet on an interception before he knew it.

"Shepard? Uh... Shepard!" He fumbled awkwardly as the lead man's eyes snapped to him. It would seem he was correct on at least one account.

"Commander..." One of the male marines that had came in with him stepped out wide from the rear, hand drifting to the sidearm mounted on his hip. _A commander?Why was this not in our intel? _Garrus pondered as he rose taloned hands; he wasn't exactly planning on shooting the man. Commander Shepard, or at least whom Garrus assumed he was, put a hand out in front of the marine, whom in turn hesitantly holstered his weapon.

Surprise rose with the commander's brow, only to be quickly replaced with tentative curiousity. "Who's asking?"

Though his stance was loose and relaxed, Garrus knew better than to assume that just because the man wasn't attacking him, that didn't mean he wasn't ready to, and so he jumped straight to the point; years in the military had more than drilled efficiency into him. "I was the officer in charge of investigating Saren. You are _the _Commander Shepard filed in with the report, correct?"

"And if I am?"

Garrus' mandibles twitched irritatedly as the man parried another introduction as he shook his head defeatedly. "Saren's a Spectre, and so C-Sec's investigation was stonewalled at every turn."

"Sounds like this hearing is going to be productive, then." A somewhat smaller man muttered from behind the commander.

"Not likely." Garrus clipped; turians weren't reputed for their sense of humour. "Officially, they've shut my investigation down, but I think I may have another lead." Worry washed over him as he realized it had been nearly a full half-hour since Dr. Michel's message.

"What do you need me for?" Shepard pressed.

Truth be told, he didn't really know why he had introduced himself to the commander. Part of him had hoped that the man would have some sort of insight on the case, but if he did, he wasn't exactly forthcoming with it. "All I'm saying is that we have a mutual interest in bringing him down." His omnitool bleeped quietly as a call came in: _Michel._ "Look, I have to go follow up on that lead. If you find anything, let me know." His jaw shifted as he considered something. "Keep it off the main channels, though. Wouldn't want anyone catching wind."

With that, the four marines were left with piqued curiousity and a number of unanswered questions before they were urged along to the Council.

* * *

"How incompetent can you get?" Chief Williams started bluntly. "I mean, really."

Ambassador Udina shook his head before he spoke, much to his company's general displeasure. "It was a mistake bringing you in there, Anderson. Your history with Saren made the Council question our motives." The group of six came to a halt in a rather spacious hallway on the Presidium near the embassies, a number of them looking towards the captain for explanation.

He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "You're probably right, Udina, but it doesn't matter now. Saren's a threat to humanity, and we know the truth. If we can prove it to the Council, they'll be forced to take action."

For his part, Commander Shepard stood idly nearby as the captain and ambassador argued in low notes. While he could hear a majority of their conversing without much trouble, he was content for the moment to reflect on the hearing. It had started normally enough, introductions, opening statements and the like, but had quickly descended into little more than an ill-disguised joust of words between the captain and Saren, the latter joining the hearing through holographic extranet call. Needless to say, the hearing had been quickly canceled.

"Shepard, I need to speak with you in private." Captain Anderson gestured towards the ambassador's office, Udina himself following closely behind. Though they didn't exactly look happy with it, none of the other three marines followed him in, and their curious expressions were cut off by the quickly closing door. Ambassador Udina immediately set about on his terminal, sending off messages to several recipients as the captain spoke.

"Shepard, this isn't good." At that, they could agree upon. "Saren's a threat to our entire species, and if he's working with the geth that's doubly bad."

Udina piped up from his desk, condescension scathing his tone. "You heard the Council, Anderson. They're not going to move against their top agent on the accusation of some scared dockworker."

"Which is exactly where Shepard and his team comes in."

The ambassador wasn't the only one caught by surprise, and Shepard's mind mostly blanked as Udina balked. "Come again?"

"You heard me, commander. I need you and your team to find me some solid evidence." The captain paused uncertainly. "I know it's not your usual operation, but I'm confident in your abilities, and your feet are already wet."

_You're damned straight it's not my usual operation, I'm a marine, not a detective, _parts of his consciousness whispered. Captain Anderson was always an atypical officer, but this was pushing it to new extremes, and was something Shepard couldn't help but question. "Captain, I'm hardly the right man for the job."

"I don't want to hear it, commander. You have your orders, get me results." Anderson only smirked dismissively as he turned away and leaned in towards Udina. It wasn't a gesture Shepard would interpret as rude, but it certainly cut off his protests.

A mute groan let slip as he turned and filed out the door, only to be greeted by the expectant faces of his 'team'. He felt distinctly silly explaining that they were playing detectives for the day, something which Dan needled him endlessly for as they made their way out of the embassy halls.

"So we're detectives?"

"Yes."

"Do we get badges?"

"No."

"Squad cars?"

"Cabs."

"No flashing lights or sirens?"

"No."

"Are we allowed to kick down doors?"

"... No."

"Then what's the damned point?"

Shepard might have decked the marine had Chief Williams not perked up just then. "Commander... if you two are done, we should go see that turian."

Lieutenant Alenko picked up on the same train of thought as they rounded the final exit to the Presidium, though his memory for names was significantly better. "Garrus Vakarian? I agree, commander. We don't have much to go on without him."

"Any idea where we can find him?" Shepard asked. The C-Sec officer had said something about following up on something, but had also suggested they keep everything off the books.

As if in answer, a large holographic display flickered brightly in front of them, mounted along a thin railing overlooking a lower path and the long river that stretched the torus' length. A single line of text translated to a dozen or more languages sprawled over its display, lined next to a slowly pulsing directional arrow: _Citadel Security Headquarters. _He laughed quietly at the convenience, and a quick walk down a ramp landed them directly in front of an angled cylinder of an elevator.

Fortunately the elevator ride, filled with uncomfortable single-line remarks and a brief news broadcast, didn't last nearly as long as any of them expected, and they found themselves in the remarkably dim C-Sec lobby within the minute. A brief look around the room had them setting off towards one of the quarter-circle reception desks manned by a bored looking human, who was drumming his wrist with his other hand as he hummed along to a poorly thought out tune.

Much to his surprise, a white and pink armoured gauntlet pushed back against his chest as they neared, and Chief Williams stepped ahead. "Let me handle this, commander." The chief said with light amusement. "You're not exactly people-friendly."

A raised brow was all she got for her efforts, perhaps proving the point further. Inwardly, he dismissed such notions as foolish, though admittedly he hadn't been the warmest of fellows up to that point. Perhaps he'd work on that later. "Right. Lieutenant, find what you can on this Vakarian on the extranet. I want to know who I'm dealing with before we go poking our noses into his business."

Further orders were belayed by a stiff nudge in his ribs. "Check it out." Dan spoke quietly, nodding subtly towards a small crowd of C-Sec officers surrounding a krogan; 'large' didn't quite do it justice. His skull plates were deep crimson, the gashes of some animal's claws marring its edge and most of the space between the cat-like red of the fearsome beast's eyes and its short snout. Even then they did not stop, the deep slices stretching over its wide mouth and down its thick neck. Whatever the character of the alien, it seemed to have an affinity for red, as its own massively thick armour matched the color of its skull plate.

Deep baritones characteristic of the krogan race reverberated even in the tall expanse of the room, and for once Shepard was pleased he was not in combat – fighting that particular krogan wouldn't exactly be what he considered to be a fun time. He laughed quietly as he went back to tapping through the extranet pages that had been beckoned forth on his omnitool. Apparently the turian investigator they sought after had made headlines after failing to arrest a geneticist who had been selling body-grown organs on the black market – not exactly reassuring for their own case.

The chief's sudden reappearance nearby caught him by well-concealed surprise, and the smugness of her smile suggested that she was, in fact, a better smooth talker than he was. "Commander, I've got his extranet address. You should be able to call him with it." Only somewhat begrudgingly did he pull up the address and open a new message to the C-Sec officer. His words hardly deserved an entire message of their own, comprised of maybe a dozen words suggesting they meet.

He frowned as a reply to his message pinged in his inbox near instantly; not because of the turnaround time or even the similar brevity of the message, but rather its contents:

_Shepard,_

_I'm a little preoccupied – can you meet me at the Med Clinic near C-Sec headquarters? Bring your guns._

_-G.V._

"That doesn't sound good." Was Dan's remark when the commander forwarded the message about the team. The other two marines nodded their agreement as they double-timed it back into the elevator after checking a map of the area. A chorus of whirring weapon cores and hydraulic compensators met the jingle of elevator music while it slowly rose out of the C-Sec lobby.

"Stow your weapons, but keep them ready. I'd rather not have to explain to C-Sec why four Alliance marines were caught waving guns around." The commander advised as he himself docked his sidearm; somehow he didn't imagine the captain would spring for their bail.

The elevator dinged and slid open, bright artificial sunlight casting their shadows on the floor as they moved quickly towards the med-clinic. Strangely convenient, its entrance was situated in a relatively unperturbed dead-end deck, but Shepard noted with some alarm the red status lights on the door control. Lieutenant Alenko and himself went to work on the interface immediately, Dan and Chief Williams loitering about and strategically blocking the line of sight of any overly-curious bystander. A moment's work was rewarded with an over-enthusiastic shuffle of the door as it jumped apart, opening the scene to a poorly-executed shakedown.

"Good, and if that turian – _Hey! _What the hell are you doing here!?" One of the men squawked, before roughly pulling a red-haired woman between Shepard's group and himself.

Poorly-executed or not, the men all seemed to be wielding some form of armament, and Shepard had his sidearm out and ready in a heartbeat. His finger brushed against the matte metal of the trigger before faltering – the man had pulled a cheap looking pistol and pressed it hard against the woman's ribs. A ghost of a woman in a bloodstained yellow sundress jarred his vision, ghostly green eyes holding his own as his finger tightened reflexively on the trigger. _Why'd you do it, mister? _He choked, breath gasping low and deep in his throat as he jerked his finger off the trigger. Through his reluctance or otherwise, the thug would not have a good day, as a shadow had moved in the corner; a distinctly turian shaped shadow, at that.

A pistol's short report echoed off the close walls, a flash of light from the far corner and one side of the man's face caved in before the other erupted outward – Shepard was somewhat disappointed that he himself had not pulled the trigger. Either way, the med-clinic descended rapidly into an all-out firefight.

Shepard dove headlong towards a low divider, his bulk slamming against it as a handful of shots thudded into the door frame. Chief Williams had ducked back through the door, having not been quick enough to leap through, but the forms of Dan and Lieutenant Alenko simultaneously joined him with quickly deploying weapons. He briefly considered the pistol in his hand before exchanging it for the short-barreled shotgun that was attached horizontally to the low of his back.

Risking a peek over the divider, he saw Garrus pulling the doctor behind the adjacent side of the same divider. Pleasantly surprised by the turian's quick thinking, he shifted his gaze to the more immediate problem of the four men all wielding pistols. One's foot edged a short barrel labeled as pure oxygen, and for a moment he debated blowing the man to kingdom come before he remembered C-Sec was hardly a long ways away. He stood, a single hand bringing the shotgun to bear center-mass on one target whom shortly thereafter erupted in a gory mess. His next shot went mostly wide, owing in no small part to the barely manageable recoil of the widemouthed shotgun, and he was forced to drop back below cover to let the weapon cool off while his two nearby teammates fired simultaneously.

He grimaced at the shotgun; it was powerful, but vastly inefficient and incapable of sustained fire, and so it was traded for the long barreled pistol he was quickly becoming fond of. Ducking around Lieutenant Alenko, he sidled along the divider until he turned its corner, coming near face to face with the C-Sec detective. Pleasantries, short and somewhat comedic given the situation, were exchanged before they got down to business.

"I don't want to be here when C-Sec arrives, Garrus. I'm assuming this woman has something to do with Saren?" Shepard asked as he drilled several rounds into a man whom had ducked around with his weapon up.

"Yes, Doctor Michel here treated a quarian who – " Garrus paused as he let loose a volley of rounds. " – has information about the attack on Eden Prime."

"Must be pretty big if they're killing for it." Shepard finished.

Garrus nodded energetically. "My thoughts exactly, commander! If you don't mind though, we have more pressing matters!"

Shepard chuckled loudly; _Turians aren't so bad_, he thought as the newly-acquainted officer leaned out and easily dispatched one of the thugs. Now, however, was hardly the time to reflect on past beliefs. A full minute and a half had elapsed since their entrance, and C-Sec was surely on their way. _Desperate times call for desperate measures..._

He was out and around the corner before he had really formulated a plan, pistol fire suppressing his foe as he advanced upon them quickly. A long step from the closest thug and his pistol loudly vented its core, a readily-interpreted signal to the thug who sloppily stepped wide out of cover and brought his weapon up. A single round pounded against Shepard's shields before he pinned the man's weapon against the wall with the flat of his forearm, a quick fist smashing against the soft tissue of his wrist. The man's mouth opened to gurgle a cry of pain even as his wrist was released and the pistol clattered to the floor, only to be cut off by a swift upper cut to his marred chin that lifted him several fingers off the ground. If he was still conscious at all, he showed no signs of it.

The remaining man swung out in similar fashion, a dented and abused shotgun cradled low. Shepard's boot slammed into the now-unconscious man's sternum, a brutal kick that sent him crashing into the other man only to absorb the shotgun blast that issued forth from his fellow's gun. Before the man could bring his shotgun up for another salvo, a bright lance of fire zipped nearby and took him clean through the gut; Shepard was pleased to note that Chief Williams was as good a shot as he took her for.

Immediately following, the med-clinic itself fell into eerie silence even as the outside world was alight with panicked screams and quickly approaching sirens.

"Garrus, we need to know what she knows _pronto_." Shepard spoke quickly as he turned and neared the huddled form of Dr. Michel. The turian looked wholly confused over his choice of words, but put it aside nonetheless.

It was Dr. Michel that spoke up first, much to Shepard's surprise. "I treated a quarian just the other day and she said she had information about Saren and he was trying to –"

Garrus put a taloned finger up, encouraging the doctor to catch her breath and calm herself. When she spoke again, several quick gasps later, she appeared much more in control.

"I treated a quarian the other day. She wouldn't tell me her name, but she had been shot. She said she had information linking Saren to the geth on Eden Prime." The doctor swallowed deeply before continuing. "She asked if I might know somewhere she would be safe from Saren's men, and I told her the Shadow Broker would likely be keen to get his hands on her information. I put her in contact with Fist, the owner of Chora's Den."

The unintelligible garble that issued forth from Garrus' mouth seemed to last several seconds and earned him a handful of amused, if somewhat impressed, looks. The turian only shrugged apathetically. "Fist is bad news. He was an agent for the Shadow Broker a few days ago, but I believe he's gone rogue for Saren's benefit."

Though Shepard himself did not know much about the Shadow Broker, the look on the lieutenant and chief's faces were enough of an indication that such a thing was a very, _very _foolish move. He sighed exasperatedly, making a mental note to read into this 'Shadow Broker's gig, before pushing himself to both feet and holstering his weapons and speaking. "I'm going to pay this Fist guy a visit, find out what he knows. Is there anything else I should know about this quarian?" Mainly he was asking whether she was armed or not, or more simply if she would try to kill him before speak with him; such variables tended to alter his response.

Garrus answered for the doctor, apparently having equivalent knowledge of the situation. "Armed, yes, but quarians are rarely very well trained. I would be surprised if this one was any different." One of his three-fingered hands reached out in front of the commander. "But if you're going to take down Fist, I want to come."

Shepard frowned; in the brief time they worked together, the turian appeared to be a level-headed and focused operator, but nonetheless they _had _just killed numerous people in a relatively peaceful city. "Can't, Garrus. C-Sec is going to want to know what happened here. Tell them the truth, or don't, doesn't matter to me." Noting the somewhat crestfallen change in the turian's composure, he spoke again quickly. "I'll keep you in the loop, but we have to go, _now_."

Before Garrus could respond, the four marines had sped off from the med-clinic, and it was only a handful of moments before the rest of the C-Sec force showed up, armed to the teeth. He passed a sigh; it was going to be hell to explain what had gone down. But then again, he doubted Dr. Michel would protest any modifications he decided to implement, and immediately thought it wise to not to mention the part where about pursuing a deactivated case... Or the four Alliance marines whom he had momentarily joined forces with. He smiled. Perhaps it wouldn't be _so_ bad.

* * *

"Commander, it's that krogan from the C-Sec lobby, dead ahead. He doesn't seem too happy either." Lieutenant Alenko's voice was tense over the constant drumming of their boots in the tight back-alleyway they had ducked through. Ahead, the significantly heavier footfalls of a krogan washed over them.

"Noted. Do not engage unless otherwise fired upon." Shepard spoke easily, though somewhat winded from their jog. No matter how fit a man was, the armour the Alliance issued could be quite restrictive in movement at times. "We're here for Fist, not him."

Unfortunately it would seem their paths were more intertwined than he thought; the large red krogan was hunched against a long wall adjacent to the entrance of Chora's Den, bulky shotgun in scaly claws and no small amount of menace in his eyes.

It was a day of firsts for Shepard, as he witnessed a mid-battle krogan actually speak reasonably. "You!" The krogan boomed, deep and guttural. "I have no quarrel with you, human. Don't make me have to kill you."

That certainly got his attention, and Shepard slowed to an easy jog before they came to the visibly locked door of the club. No music pulsed from inside, contrary to the norm. "Relax. I'm here to ask Fist a few questions." He said easily as he reached for the rifle running parallel with his spine.

"Fist? Ha!" The krogan chuckled darkly. "That's too bad. I'm going to kill him."

Rifle resting in his hands, Shepard sighed; there was literally no point in arguing with a krogan. "Let me talk to him first, then you can do whatever you please. What's your name?"

Much to his surprise, the krogan didn't shoot him straight off. Instead, he seemed to consider something before nodding amicably, or at least, what passed for amicably in a culture whose very essence surrounded fighting and death. "Fair enough, human. You can ask your questions, but I _am _going to kill him. My name is Urdnot Wrex; I don't let down a contract." A low noise emitted from Wrex, more of a throaty growl than anything else.

"Well then, Wrex, any idea how we're getting through this door?" One of his boots bounced off the object in question as Shepard considered it.

"I've got an idea." A hugely balled fist connected solidly at the seam where the two plates of the motorized door came together. For a moment, Shepard chuckled as he thought the ever-aggressive krogan was knocking on the door – that changed quickly when he realized the scaly beast was _pulling _one side of the door open. Bulky muscle stood out like whipcords on the krogan's body as he heaved: "I. Am. _Krogan!_"

As soon as the gap was large enough, Shepard slipped through into the club, the three humans following quickly after and leaving Wrex to widen it enough to fit his considerably larger self through. Their lack of concern could be forgiven, though, considering the amount of fire that raced out to meet them from around the circular club. Confronted with a significantly larger force, his team fanned out and moved to cover – what little there was. Chora's Den was a a perfect circle surrounding a bar in the shape of a ring, and the only cover was a number of thick-stemmed tables on the fringes of the room.

There was, then, little room for error, and the four humans hammered the triggers of their weapons as their shields flashed and rippled under erratic fire. Luckily, none of the bar's numerous bouncers and in-general defendants seemed to want to be near the door when Wrex had begun pounding on it, and had moved back several meters from the general area of the entrance, leaving a clear and short sprint for Shepard to duck behind the serving bar. None too soon, either, as his shielding popped and died away and a single round bit into an excess peak on one shoulder plate.

He reached for a grenade on his person, staying his hand only when he remembered he was on the Citadel and not the battlefield. Instead, he vaulted over the bar and towards the island inside of the ring, rifle firing loosely as he did so. A smattering of rounds caught one unprotected human bouncer down the leg, and his cries rang out as he stumbled on the now useless limb. A massive fiery blast put an end to that, and Shepard was surprised to see Wrex stomping into the fray, firing the beast of a shotgun indiscriminately into their opposition. _I suppose that makes us allies, for now. Could be hella useful, _he thought as he swung out of cover and began advancing with the krogan. The rest of his team followed suit, an evenly spaced line of overlapping fire that quickly cut down on the countering guard.

Thunderous claps pealed out as Wrex and a krogan bouncer locked in on each other, balled fists hammering at gaps in their armour. Wrex clearly had the advantage, not only in size but in the fact that he had armour that looked as if it had more than withstood the test of time, rather than just some shell to ward off the occasional knife from a drunken patron. In testament to this, armour plates split under his heavy barrage of hits, and the bouncer went down wholly. The heated barrel of a shotgun was placed against its temple, and the barely-muted blast was accompanied by a shower of steaming orange gore that slapped against the bar's paneling.

A distasteful frown seeped over Shepard's face as he looked pointedly at the krogan. While it was certainly an effective method of killing, even he couldn't deny that Wrex's method of warfare was barbaric and vulgar. Nonetheless, he pressed onto an inlet whose entrance was a wide path cut from the main wall, a hole in the otherwise perfect circle. It appeared to be some sort of loading bay, with a few thick crates stacked haphazardly upon each other preceding another locked door.

Perhaps it was the dark armour, the frosty eyes above smoking guns, or sheer numbers; whatever it was, the two maintenance men behind the door who were holding cheap pistols in trembling hands quickly threw them down and skedaddled without a wasted breath. Shepard watched them all but run into the main bar, slight amusement besetting his face as they dodged around a slowly approaching krogan, before he moved on to yet another sealed way.

"Stack up, make sure Fist is alive enough to tell us where the quarian is." He whispered as the marines half-crouched in place. They were joined shortly after by the lumbering form of Wrex wiping bright orange blood from his chest. Something told Shepard that the blood didn't belong to the krogan.

"Don't test my patience, human." Wrex warned, though Shepard had trouble discerning whether it was a genuine threat or otherwise – something about krogan always seemed to indicate that they wanted to kill you.

Three fingers dropped to nil before they breached the room, the lieutenant and Chief Williams taking cover behind a symmetrically placed shelf of some sort, leaving the other three to make their way against a close wall to the other side of the room. It was small, as most offices were, headed at the far end by a tall desk raised on several short levels in front of an intricate looking computer system. Along the walls on either side of the room were several knee-high boxes that he assumed were loose data stores or something similar.

There were also turrets.

Rounds pounded numbly at Shepard's shields, dropping them a good measure in the scant time he was exposed between covers. Even more pockmarked the ceiling-tall shelves he found himself behind alongside Dan, though he was quickly shoved aside by the ungainly thick Wrex as he too dropped into their cover.

"Shit! Use grenades if you've got them!" Shepard called out, priming his own set of the disc-shaped devices.

Wrex only grunted as he gruffly pushed his hand aside. "Leave the turrets to me." Some otherworldly aura coiled itself around the krogan's fists – biotics, Shepard realized, a highly unusual ability especially amongst krogan – and the beast turned on a foot to face the turrets exposed. Metal sheared and tore as an invisible force grabbed hold of the turret body and bodily tore it from its stand, a second before throwing it at the other matching turret. The pair exploded in twin fireballs of blue and streaks of violet. Nodding satisfactorily, Wrex moved fully out of cover, stomps of his feet doing little to silence the cycling of his shotgun, and the four humans tread a little more carefully behind him.

"Looks like I have to do everything – _augh!_" An unfamiliar voice sounded out from the far end of the room, cut off as Wrex's meaty fist crunched against the thin plate that armoured the human.

"Here's the little scum, human. Get to it." The still-wheezing figure of Fist skidded to a halt just short of Shepard's boots, a hearty toss by the krogan warlord. 'Fist' was an ugly name for an equally ugly human being, the long widow's peak in the otherwise tall hair only magnified by a disproportionately short forehead. Low eyebrows above beady eyes and a fat jaw did little to improve the man's likeability, and in short, Fist looked about as loathsome as he truly was.

"Please, don't kill me! I surrender!" Fist babbled out as he clutched his chest. His name, apparently, was not signifying of the man's general prowess in a fight.

Shepard smirked, perhaps a bit cruel as he considered the man's position, but offered little reassurance otherwise. "Yeah, sure. Where's the quarian?"

"She's not here, that's the truth!"

Shepard sighed tiredly as he rubbed at his temples, crouched low on his toes before the downed man. He was a little past sly excuses at the moment. "That's not what I asked, Fist."

His hand moved dangerously close to the pistol mounted to his hip, a not-so-subtle movement Fist more than picked up on. "Wait! Fine man, Christ, I don't know where she is, but I can tell you where to find her!"

"I'm listening." Shepard responded shortly.

"I told her I set up a meet with the Shadow Broker, but ain't nobody meets with the Shadow Broker, nobody! It'll be Saren's men she meets with, and then she'll get what's comin' to her!" Fist spoke with shaky confidence which gained as the man tried to stand up. A firm push landed the man on his back again, Shepard's knee pressing in on the crumpled part of his armour as the man cried out in pain. Apparently, the armour wasn't the only thing that had been broken. "Agh! Fuck man! Look, she didn't know, and I told her I'd set a meeting up."

Shepard pressed in with his knee a hair's breadth harder, eliciting more pained shouts that were met only by stony expression. "Where?" He spoke low and almost too calmly given his actions. Behind him, Lieutenant Alenko shifted on his heels uncomfortably.

"Here! On the wards, fuck! There's a back alley by the markets, she should be there now! You're too late!" Fist managed between several gasps.

Shepard leaned back off the man, speaking over his shoulder to the lieutenant. "Alenko, can you get a fix on this alley?" Below him, Fist gasped and sobbed tearlessly as he clutched his broken ribcage. Haggard breath was all that he added to the discussion.

"I know the place, Shepard." Wrex interrupted from his spot leaning against the wall, shotgun hanging loosely from one digit.

Numerous faces of surprise met the statement before Shepard responded. "Why, you want to tag along, Wrex?"

"I like fighting things. You seem like the kind of person who might get into a bit more trouble than usual." The krogan shrugged noncommittally as he spoke, spelling out his simple reasoning as if it were the most ordinary logic in the world. Shepard smirked silently as he watched the krogan's grip on his shotgun magnify slightly.

It worked for Shepard, though, and from the way he handled the turrets and other mechanized obstacles – namely doors – he might be of some value, and so he nodded once before standing fully away from Fist. Wrex pushed himself off the wall, moving slowly behind the downed human as Shepard and his team turned and walked away. Boot steps sounded hollow against the metal of the floor tiling, joined in short by the heavy metallic noises of a cycling shotgun.

"Hey, what about me – hey, wait wait wait, what the fuck are you – !" A booming shotgun punctuated Fist's final words.

* * *

"Are we sure we can trust this krogan?"

Chief Williams' question was shared amongst the majority of the human party that followed in Wrex's long strides. Only Shepard grunted neutrally, preferring not to focus on the what-ifs and instead upon the current situation. Dozens of fancifully dressed citizens of a myriad of species stared in frightened shock at the group that sprinted through their midst, a large krogan gruffly pushing aside those too unfortunate to react quickly enough. They were moving quickly through the lower wards, and dozens upon dozens of stores and stalls appeared to blur past them as they did. It had been only a few short minutes since the unlucky end of one of the Ward's most known crime figures, but Shepard couldn't help but feel they were running out of time.

"We're here, Shepard." Wrex stated as they came near a tight corridor that rose with staircases several meters down its length. As if waiting for their arrival, the dull and quieted thump of a grenade echoed down from the alley. Shepard cursed under his breath as he broke into a full on sprint, breaking away and ahead of the rest of his team as they struggled to keep up.

The lighting in the alleyway was poor at best, as seemed characteristic of the Wards, thought it was lit sporadically be hazy red panels above various building's back entrances. It was, however, enough to navigate with, and namely enough to see the hunched form of a purple-hooded quarian behind a half-dozen large and scattered crates. A team of salarians and turians advanced on the quarian's hardly sufficient cover, firing suppressed weapons at random as they hooted and howled.

"Wrex!" Shepard hissed, one hand waving towards a pile of debris and presumably heavy crates as the other wrapped about the grip of his rifle. Empyrean glow once again graced the krogan's hands as he appeared to push and struggle against an invisible object, and the crates set in the refuse and debris shifted slightly before tumbling heavily towards a number of the assailants. Little more than greenish bloodstains remained of the diminutive salarians as they were pulverized under its hefty weight, and the accompanying debris and refuse buried them inches below its surface.

It was naturally impossible to maintain any semblance of stealth after such an introduction, though, and the two turians in charge were quick to return fire, forcing Shepard and Wrex back into cover as the other three scrambled on-scene. Dan remained standing, sending constant salvos of accurate fire into the fray as the would-be assassins clambered behind what little cover was available.

Shepard stood, rifle up, as the rest of his team followed quick suit, and descended a staircase leading into a somewhat more open area, needling fire pinning their foe down as they advanced. A foolhardy salarian made to fire blindly over his cover, only to have his wrist disintegrated by a torrent of fire. It stood, its remaining hand gripping the bloody and smouldering stump of an appendage and screaming its distress before an overcharged shotgun blast from Wrex put it and its partner wholly out of misery. One wiry salarian, its curved horns twitching wildly, nimbly dodged fire as it fled the scene, quickly traversing a long length before his attackers simply dismissed him as a no longer relevant threat. The turians, however, would never be caught in such a display of cowardice, and promptly rose to make their final stand.

It wasn't a lengthy final stand by any means, and the barrage of fire that crippled and battered their midsections was enough to take down a krogan, something Wrex seemed to take pleasure in.

The quarian actually seemed willing to take part in the firefight, a device much like a grenade in one three-fingered hand, a long spindly knife in the other. Both were quickly wielded in Shepard's direction, and he found himself musing at the deep and cloudy violet mask, even as the luminous half-moons that were her eyes narrowed menacingly at him; it reminded him of the long-term stasis pods he had become unfortunately familiar with.

"Who are _you?_" The woman asked almost accusingly, as she reaffirmed her grip on the grenade in her hand. "And what do you want?" A small circular light on the mouth-section of the mask flashed intermittently with her speech patterns, shielded by extended and flat jaw bones that poked out of a hood flowing over her shoulders much like hair would. The jawbone was several centimeters above a flexible paneling that guarded her neck, coming to an angle a bit past the cylinder that was the breather and vocalizer of the environmental suit.

Not exactly feeling up for shaking off a grenade blast, Shepard thought it best to play nice, and so slung his rifle onto the mag-pad on his back and let his hands hang loosely, albeit readily, at his sides. "Commander Shepard." He smiled slightly. "As for your second question, I want something you have. The difference is, I'm asking you nicely, and I'm not going to try to shoot you for it."

"Fine," She paused, sizing the team of four humans and a krogan in front of her; she didn't have much of a choice either way. A frustrated sigh escaped the mask's vocalizer, and her fingers drew a sharp line against the forehead area of her mask. "Fist, he set me up! I should have known better, _dammit_, it was all too good to be true." When she looked up, the amused expression of the commander awaited her, one black brow arched high behind the glass half-visor. "Sorry, I-I'm Tali'Zorah nar_ Rayya._"

"A pleasure." Shepard said coolly. "I've been told you have information regarding Saren and the geth – is this true?"

Tali fumbled awkwardly with the knife and grenade, sheathing the former in a calf-mounted case and the latter disappearing somewhere in one of the many pockets that lined her hips. "Er, yes, hang on..." In the bright glow of her omnitool, the mail-patterned pressure suit that was more of a second-skin was much more visible. A sash of faded violet twisted around her torso, pinned under two parallel belts that cinched neatly just above her mid-section, contouring the same dim fabric of white twirls on light purple that twisted around and highlighted the significantly wider hips characteristic of quarians.

Shepard refrained from rolling his eyes, but only barely; _Why is it that everybody thinks it's okay to hang around after a firefight on this station? _He shook his head in equal parts confusion and bewilderment. "Now's not really a good time, miss, considering there's a dozen dead bodies lying about and C-Sec is probably on the way."

After a half-moment of deliberation, Lieutenant Alenko stepped forward helpfully. "We could take her to the embassy, commander. Ambassador Udina and the captain will want to hear about this anyway."

The words seemed to strike a chord with the quarian, and Tali took a step back, one hand drifting towards the pockets of her suit. "_No one _is taking me _anywhere – _ "

"Easy. All he meant is that we'd like to get you out of this alive." Shepard exhaled heavily, though inwardly he understood that the quarian would likely be on edge after such an experience. It was hard for him to empathize, though, having been a soldier for longer than he could effectively remember.

"... Right. Sorry." She mumbled, though her hand did not move from the grenade-containing pockets. She shifted awkwardly on her heels, and it was several moments before she spoke again. "If you don't mind, I'd like to go with your um... team?"

Shepard nodded once. "Williams, get word to Captain Anderson that we're coming in with one high-value."

"Got'cha, commander." Came the response, as sirens wailed in closing distance. _Shit_. C-Sec was on their way, notably quicker on the uptake than they had been all day.

"Form up around the quarian, nobody gets near." Standard escort formation was placing any valuable targets in the rear, but on the Citadel, Shepard was quickly realizing that the only safe place was in the middle of a mess of friendly guns. "Wrex, you're welcome to join us if you've got a mind to." He added after his gaze switched from the fuming Tali – apparently she didn't fancy being called 'the quarian' – towards the hulking krogan. He only grunted in response.

"Right. Eyes peeled, let's move."

* * *

**February 21st, 2183  
****The Citadel, C-Sec Headquarters  
****1545 Citadel Time / 0745 Earth Time****  
**

"Remind me, exactly _what _were you doing at this med-clinic while on-duty?" Executor Pallin demanded as he seethed from behind his desk.

Garrus groaned quietly, beginning to regret ever going to meet with Dr. Michel. Since C-Sec arrived on the scene, everything had become quite hellish. The lower level officers and regular patrolmen had believed his fabrication quite readily, that he had simply been visiting an old friend, and that he had dipped out for a refreshment when in waltzed a handful of thugs on routine shakedown. They might have given him a few odd glances for being so buddy-buddy with a human, but they at least didn't follow up on it.

Executor Pallin, though, was a different story entirely, and Garrus was confident that the older turian had seen the connection all too easily and all too quickly. It was quite likely that the executor was expecting such a development, and the younger investigator rubbed at his mandibles before responding cordially. "I was in the area, and an old friend – "

"This Doctor Chloe Michel?"

He nodded. "Yes, Doctor Michel asked me to come by. Routine patrol reports indicated that the lower Wards are areas of increasing crime, so it seemed the right thing to do." Garrus couldn't help but feel a bit smug behind his facade of tentativeness.

"And I'm just supposed to believe that you were in the right place at the right time?" The executor asked acerbically. The older turian intertwined his hands on the edge of his desk as he leaned forward eagerly, apparently thinking he had the upper hand in the argument.

Garrus chuckled dryly before responding. "Well, no. I _was _in the right place at the right time, executor, there's little doubt about that." He didn't think it wise to tell him who _else _had been in the right place at the right time.

The resounding crack that followed as the executor's mandibles mashed together was surprisingly loud, and it was clear in the turian's poise that he was setting himself up for a rant before the communications unit on the desk between them blipped and rang. Instead, Pallin settled back down in his chair, though not without several half-constructed syllables of rage expressed, and took several calming breaths before reading over it on his omnitool. This was highly unfortunate for Garrus, as he could neither listen in nor read the message over the executor's shoulder; in short, he was completely in the dark when the executor's expression turned stony and grim. The messaging unit blipped again, sounding off several times before the overflow of messages ceased.

"Executor, what's going on?" He couldn't help but ask, curiousity that made him the remarkable investigator that he was overcoming him.

"Never you mind. I have things to do. Until further notice, you are temporarily suspended from duty." The executor's rebuke was short and to the point – clear indication of a poor turn of events for the turian – and Garrus was quickly ushered from the office without an answer.

He was not, however, one to simply stand around and waste away with the day. Making for his desk and terminal, he pondered the recent turn of events: Whatever had happened was enough to rile up the normally cool-in-the-face-of-danger executor, which meant it was more than likely something massive in scale – perhaps a drug ring, or a string of kidnappings. It appeared his suspension had not taken effect quite yet, and he pulled up several situation reports from outlying patrol units.

What he read both worried him and elated him slightly: Chora's Den had been hit, and hard. Early investigation reports included photos of multiple dead, none of which he could recognize as the commander's team, but were characteristic of something akin to slaughter; bodies draped precariously over the edges of tables and chairs, a krogan missing a sizable portion of his head. The entire room was pockmarked and scarred with bullet holes, furniture crumbled and missing large bites from their edges. Pulpy remains of a krogan skull were scattered about the floors and on the bar, a sight gruesome enough to make even a veteran turian grimace.

More worrisome was the report about the bar's owner, the well-known scum of the dark side of the Citadel, Fist. His sternum had very nearly separated from his skeleton from brute-force impact, and what hadn't been broken or otherwise pulverized had been singed and blasted apart by what was tentatively described as a point-blank shotgun blast. The problem wasn't the carnage that had taken place, it was that Garrus couldn't be sure whom had dealt it. It was, in theory, completely possible that the Shadow Broker had taken his revenge early, and if so, he might have lost the crucial evidence against Saren that he so desperately needed. It was quite the chilling feeling.

Another report winked on screen; something about weapons being discharged in a back alley near the lower wards, a section that lacked patrolling and was completely unsupervised by cameras. He checked a map of the area surrounding Chora's Den, then double checked the timings on all three events of the med clinic, the club, and the alley A satisfied snort escaped him: either the universe saw fit for an untimely coincidence, or the commander was quite the capable soldier.

He placed his bets on the latter, and a new message in his private inbox only seemed to reinforce that.

* * *

**February 21st, 2183  
****The Citadel, Human Embassy  
****1555 Citadel Time / 0755 Earth Time****  
**

_Garrus,_

_Quarian's evidence is good, escorting her to the Council shortly. Thought you should know._

_-S_

Shepard smirked slightly as he sent the message away, setting his omnitool back to sleep as he resumed his attention to the meeting within the ambassador's office. He had only been half-paying attention, enough to listen to the quarian's audio recording she had picked up from a disabled geth. She had actually been quite receptive to the idea of helping the Alliance, surprising considering her species was more or less shunned by everyone. Perhaps she'd be getting something out of it.

"Commander Shepard, I think we can all agree that you should be at the hearing, as a precaution and if the Council has questions." Ambassador Udina was practically giddy with excitement, constantly tugging at and smoothing the wrinkles in the manilla dress coat he wore.

Frowning slightly, Shepard nodded. The politician was acting strange, as if he was withholding some important facet of information. He shook it off; let the man have his games, it didn't affect him either way.

"Miss Zorah, if you would – "

"My name is _Tali._" It seemed as though the poor girl was more than a little fed up with the current naming situation revolving about her, though Shepard couldn't figure why she was so opposed to a formal name. The lithe figure was leaning back on one foot, arms crossed as she glared pointedly at the ambassador.

Udina fumbled his words, apparently unused to being back-talked, but recovered quickly. "Er, right, Tali. If you would like to accompany us to the Council Chambers, I am certain no one would oppose it."

It was Tali's turn to blunder, except amidst an amusing show of hand-wringing and a downcast head, she barely recovered enough to whisper in the affirmative. The ambassador seemed to revel in the quarian's embarrassment, clapping his hands together loudly as he moved quickly to the door.

Shepard only shook his head as he followed up at the rear of the group. The ambassador could be a quirky man, but more often than not he would be found scheming something seedy. He couldn't help but distrust the man, though he knew it was more than likely that the man was simply trying to help in his own way. And yet, as the man ushered the quarian into the air car, exuberant if somewhat scathing smile plastered over his face, Shepard frowned; whatever the man was up to, it was either going to be interesting, or just plain trouble.

* * *

**February 21st, 2183  
****The Citadel, Council Chambers  
****1610 Citadel Time / 0810 Earth Time****  
**

Given his recent suspension, there was surprisingly little for Garrus to partake in. He had flipped through a half-dozen or so local extranet channels, finding only 'breaking news' channels of the increase of shootouts on the Citadel. One reporter had even went so far as to blame C-Sec for not responding quick enough, as if they had the manpower for that. His service weapon was, of course, confiscated given his suspended status, and so he was left without anything to tinker with as well.

Inactivity had left him to wander aimlessly about the Presidium, arriving by coincidence just before the Council meeting regarding Saren had begun. Saren's holographic presence wasn't available for the hearing, given the short notice, and so it was left completely to the human ambassador and the Council themselves to bicker over trivial things. He had long since tuned it out. Simply put, Council meetings were _boring_, and not the 'I-have-better-things-to-do' kind of boring, but rather the 'eat-my-own-mandibles-off' variety of boring. They would argue and skirt around any issues of real merit, content to be verbose about the small things than smart about the big things. To think that humanity actually wanted a part of this was beyond absurd to him; it was crazy.

"... _Eden Prime was a major victory. The beacon has brought us one step closer to finding the conduit._"

An amplified voice boomed out over the nitpicking between the human ambassador and turian councilor. From his spot in one of the upper galleries, Garrus could recognize the standing form of Commander Shepard and the holographic gauntlet of his omnitool as he played the recording from it. Several gasps and shocked faces met the commander's interruption, and he was satisfied to see the turian councilor finally shut up in his rants. Instead, he was shuffling quite awkwardly as if he had been personally called out in some matter. There was a noticeable pause amidst the entire room, and Garrus smiled satisfactorily; nothing like a slap in the face to wake the Council. The voice was definitively that of Saren Arterius, speech recognition would be able to confirm that in a matter of seconds.

"_... And one step closer to the return of the Reapers._"

He paused, thoughts echoing a sentiment he was hardly alone with: _What the hell are the Reapers? _But it passed with little more than a second thought, the majority of the room's occupants far too intrigued by the now readily apparent betrayal of the Council's top agent. Unfortunately, the Council had seen fit to reduce their voice amplification to a level more appropriate for a close conversation, and from his spot in the tall gallery, it was impossible to overhear their discussion.

Such conversing went on for several minutes, only the edges of chattering reaching his ears, before the three councilors shared almost conspiratorial glances and turned to the interface stands before them, the turian amongst them looking rather outraged. When they spoke, their voices rose high in the chambers – they had turned their amplification back up.

"Commander Shepard; Step forward." The asari councilor's voice was high and clear, authoritative yet gentle at the same time. None of this seemed to appease the human commander, who jerked his head between the Council and his ship's captain. For his part, the darker human seemed equally bewildered, and the three marines, quarian, and krogan that had accompanied the party showed their surprise in their own ways. The only one who didn't seem completely caught off-guard was the ambassador, gleeful smiling and completely unaware that something had gone very, _very _wrong.

It was several hesitant moments before the commander stepped forward, though with surprising confidence, or at least what seemed to be a sufficient substitute. His human captain had pulled the ambassador to the side and appeared to be in heated argument with the man, gesturing numerous times to files displayed on his omnitool.

"It is the decision of the Council..." The asari delivered a hefty look to the turian councilor next to her. "... that you be granted all the powers of the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance branch of the Citadel."

Turians have some of the sharpest eyes, longest focal ranges and all-in-all easily the best eyesight of all the Citadel races, and yet he imagined even a volus could have seen the commander's chiseled jaw shift wholly uncomfortably. Garrus checked his omnitool quickly, sifting through dozens of extranet results which confirmed his theory: Commander Shepard would be the first human Spectre, a privilege and honor in its own right, which would explain the man's discomfort. So he thought, anyhow.

"Spectres are not trained, but chosen; Individuals forged in the fire of service and battle, those whose actions elevate them above the rank and file." The salarian councilor chipped in, wide black eyes reflecting some thin strip of light from beneath the tall and ornate hood he wore.

"Spectres are an ideal, a symbol, the embodiment of courage, determination, and self-reliance. They are the right-hand of the Council, instruments of our will." Garrus chortled in quiet amusement at the asari's words. The very description of the Spectres wasn't exactly appealing the way they were putting it, though he supposed it was a necessary speech given humanity had never heard it before.

"Spectres bear a great burden: They are protectors of galactic peace, both our first _and _last line of defense. The safety of the galaxy is theirs to uphold." A number of bystanders had taken interest by the time the turian had spoken again, leaning over the railing as they eagerly watched on.

"You are the first human Spectre, Commander Shepard. This is a great accomplishment for your entire species." The asari spoke again, as if she expected the commander to be somewhat more elated. If anything, he looked only more troubled as she went on, though he spared a stiff nod to show his acknowledgment.

"We're sending you into the Traverse after Saren. He's a fugitive of justice, and you are authorized to use any means necessary to apprehend or eliminate him." The salarian offered up, a reminder of the very reason the commander had been elevated to his new Spectre status. Commander Shepard was once more a blank slate, showing comprehension of the words but no emotional affirmation otherwise.

"This meeting is adjourned." A closing statement by the asari councilor echoed, and the commander's party quickly dispersed, the commander himself huddled in serious talk with his captain while the ambassador lead the group, though several notches below his previous elation. Indeed, Garrus thought the man looked somewhat cowed, as if he had been made out to be quite the fool. They stopped before two parked air cars, discussing something as a group, before splitting apart. One of the marines boarded one vehicle with the commander, captain, and ambassador, accompanying the until-that-point lonesome quarian in the spacious cabin. It took off, thrusters firing brightly as the remaining two marines and a red armoured krogan conversed briefly before filing off on a familiar route. If he was allowed to guess, their path would put them on course with the C-Sec station on the Presidium, one he had taken uncountable times before.

Garrus pushed himself out of his seat, content to have at long last finally done something worth doing. After all, what could possibly be more important than ousting a rogue Spectre?

* * *

**February 21th, 2183  
****The Citadel, Human Embassies  
****1650 Citadel Time / 0850 Earth Time****  
**

"Captain, what the _hell _just happened?"

A flurry of words had begun as soon as Tali'Zorah had been let into one of the embassy's secure rooms, not under lock and key but guard and rifle – Dan's rifle, in fact – and the three men had been left alone in the ambassador's office. To say tensions were running high was an understatement that could not be underscored enough. For Commander Shepard, though, it was questions of uncertainty that he was contending with, and uncertainty did not settle easy in his stomach.

"The ambassador here got overeager." Captain Anderson rubbed at his temples as he dropped bodily into a luscious looking chair. "I guess your... status, didn't register with him."

The commander nodded. He understood that he didn't exist on records, that was nothing new to him. What was more concerning to him was the feeling that he had been left out of the loop somewhere. "So what's the problem?"

"Exactly! There _is no problem._ Saren must be stopped, and Shepard is the perfect man for the job." Ambassador Udina saw fit to step in at that moment, his ornery objections somehow magnified in the close room. "The only difference is that we now have the Council's backing!"

"You've also gone and made Shepard the headline story for weeks to come!" The captain's voice raised to uncharacteristic levels as he ran a hand over short black hair. When it settled back in his lap, his ire had died down somewhat. "The very nature of his unit is to operate in complete secrecy, deniable operations, ghosts in the field. Having his face on the nightly news isn't helping that any."

The ambassador chuckled dryly. "Unit? Two men do not make a unit, Captain Anderson. Either way, a Spectre needs a ship and a crew, Anderson. We'll need to talk later."

Shepard couldn't help but bristle at that; his unit had done more for humanity over its operational history than any other military unit, and while he nor the others ever asked for recognition, they certainly didn't ask for disdain. Nonetheless, he calmed the sudden spike of annoyance and moved on, though his mind lingered on the 'ship and crew' aspect of the proposal; he might like that. "Captain, we need to focus on the issue at hand: Saren and the geth. What do we even know about the geth?"

"Well, they're rarely seen outside of the Veil, and they're completely against organics. Saren must have promised them something valuable enough for them to willingly side with an organic." Tali's voice sounded out from the entrance of the room, confident in her knowledge even if her awkward stance suggested otherwise. Behind her, the Dan's grizzled face appeared a full ahead above hers, grinning sheepishly.

The occupants of the room all turned to look at the pair, Shepard included. His focus, however, was primarily upon the marine. "Dan, I believe I told you two to stay put." He spoke calmly, neither upset nor particularly surprised with the man.

"Yeah, well... To be fair, I didn't exactly let her out. She overrode the door controls practically as soon as you guys left, said she had something she needed you to hear." The gruff marine scratched at the back of his head uncomfortably. "I think she also threatened me with something called 'Chiktikka'."

Shepard chuckled quietly; Dan was always the more readily personable of them, so the situation wasn't terribly surprising. The captain only seemed to echo a small amount of disapproval at the relatively lax standard, but the ambassador was surely spluttering with rage on the inside that a '_quarian _hacked Alliance protocols'. He shook his head before he replied, aiming his words to the quarian girl. "What do you need, Tali?"

"Well, ehm, I was just... just thinking that, um, if you were going after Saren and the geth..." Never before had the commander seen someone fidget so uncomfortably. The quarian's shoulders rose as she steeled herself for the coming words. "My people _created _the geth, commander, and nowhere is safe for me until Saren is taken out."

Black brows rose once again as the commander regarded the stammering girl. "And?"

When she spoke again, Tali seemed somewhat downtrodden, as if she were already expecting a negative outcome. "... I was hoping I could join you on your mission – job... thing."

Shepard laughed quietly as he cradled his forehead tiredly. It was surprising just how long days felt on the Citadel, and he wasn't exactly sure when the last time he had gotten sleep was. "I don't think the Alliance, or the captain, would approve of my bringing aliens aboard the _Normandy_." In fact, there were very specific regulations written on the very subject, which were speculated to have come about after some overly confident crew member let powerful asari biotics on board their ship. Apparently, sensitive equipment and biotics don't mesh well at all.

Though her reaction was completely hidden behind the opaque mask she word, it didn't take a genius to realize that the quarian was highly upset with his words, as her shoulders hunched and she stared at her feet. Anybody would have recognized it, but Shepard wasn't paying much attention. The only thing he _was _paying attention to was the call that came through his omnitool from Chief Williams marked urgent. A few taps of keys and the channel was established.

"_Commander!_" The gunnery chief's somewhat panicked voice radiated from the small device on his wrist.

"Chief, what's going on?" He asked quickly.

"_Goddammit! Alenko, you've got hostiles at your ten o'clock!_" The staccato drumming of an assault rifle reared over the channel before Chief Williams got back on. "_We were on our way back to the embassy after we ran into that turian friend of yours, and –_" Another burst of fire interrupted. "_ – and a bunch of turians got the jump on us!_"

Shepard growled inaudibly, berating himself for forgetting that Saren was still a threat even without his Spectre status. "Understood chief. What's your position?" He spoke as he rose from his chair, reaching for his slung rifle as he did.

"_Just past the markets commander, I'll get Alenko to push through a signal! Williams out!_"

The channel went dead, and the room galvanized into action. Dan and Shepard both already had rifles in hand, but they would be leaving shortly, and so he turned slightly to face Captain Anderson. "Captain, Saren's likely to send a team for her." Gesturing to Tali, his hand grasped around his shotgun's grip before tossing it as he pulled the quarian further into the safety of the room. She tumbled in after one solid pull, mute squeaks of protest falling on deaf ears as she was guided further into the room.

Anderson caught the shotgun easily, the weapon unfolding as power ducts lit up along its length. "Get moving, Shepard. We'll be fine here." He spoke confidently as he moved into position behind the ambassador's sizable desk. The way he held the shotgun, it was easy to tell the captain was just as comfortable on the front line of a war as he was in the command seat of a warship.

Shepard nodded once before he and Dan moved out of the room, breaking into full sprint as he brought up the signal's location on his omnitool, and dozens of boisterous politicians were forced to leap out of the way as the two heavily armed marines made their way to a nearby elevator. He swore again as they waited wholly impatiently for the elevator to begin moving; it was so much _easier _not being responsible for others.

* * *

Lieutenant Alenko was an experienced marine of numerous campaigns, a talented biotic wielder, and an otherwise extremely skilled man, but there was somethings he couldn't do; like holding off a half-dozen heavily armed mercenaries with a pistol and a single rifle. Unfortunate, really, given that was _exactly _the situation he had found himself in since entering the markets.

"One more coming your way, Williams!" He called out as he fired rapidly at a turian attempting to close the distance. They were pinned behind a merchant's stall, the waist-high structure providing minimal cover along its short length. Barely thirty meters further down the way, advancing slowly down the large aisle the row of stalls was founded on was their newly found enemy.

Kaidan peered out from behind the low wall, pistol brought up at the same time and a handful of his rounds found their mark against the shields of a nimble salarian. "What happened to your gun?" He asked the agitated turian next to him as fire forced him back into cover.

Garrus responded huffily, the senior investigator hunched over behind the stall as he was useless to do anything else. "I was suspended, and they took it." The turian heaved a sigh as he settled against the low wall; 'nothing' was not something he was good at doing.

"Yeah well, the commander could be a while, so take this and start shooting." The gunnery chief dropped a pistol into Garrus' lap that Kaidan recognized to be one she had picked up from a store only a few minutes prior. The investigator set upon it almost gleefully, and before long was sending well-placed shots toward their foe. While three was only half again as good as two, the extra gun certainly didn't go amiss in the fray.

_Five _guns, however, was a good show for a half-dozen enemy, and Kaidan was visibly relieved to see the commander and Dan join the struggle, firing quick bursts as they entered on their flanks. The mercenaries were quickly pinned between the two forces, but cover worked to their advantage, no matter how slight.

"_Alenko, get them in the air._" The commander's ever-calm intones sounded in his helmet, and the lieutenant responded tiredly. Using biotics was stressful, requiring an exorbitant amount of concentration on something that wasn't even tangible or really even feasible. It wasn't 'magic' like many people often thought it was, so much as feeling an extension of oneself and mentally visualizing that extension as a manipulating force – it was easy to see why biotics were so hard to master.

Not only was it confusing in application, it was taxing in use, and Kaidan could practically feel his energy ebb away as bluish aura lifted two of the pinned turians out of cover. They flailed about, helpless to their own demise as their shields popped and their armour was shredded under a hail of gun fire. Globules of deep blue blood floated among them briefly, spattering against the floor and bodies of the turians as the mass effect field collapsed.

Several deep breaths later and Kaidan was hardly ready enough again to lift any more than a grapefruit, panting heavy as he fired a wavering pistol towards a pinned salarian. He was happy to note that the reptile-like alien's head snapped forward as its shields dropped completely, signifying its unhappy death, though he wasn't completely sure if it had been him that hit the thing at all. A weak push on his biotics had an ungainly tall turian stumbling just far enough out of cover, leaving the alien completely vulnerable to the torrent of fire that rushed out to meet it.

"Gentlemen, lady." The commander's voice reached their ears over the sudden silence, and his full form rounded the corner of the stall as he reattached the rifle to his back. Kaidan frowned slightly; apparently he had been the only one who hadn't realized the fighting had stopped.

* * *

"All quiet on the western front?"

"Appears that way, Dan." Shepard responded as the group moved through the embassy halls. The tension between them was more than palpable, all hands on docked weaponry and eyes scanning about every nook and cranny. At the very least, nothing _seemed _to have taken place, and the same multitudes of politicians and civilians were seen strolling about and for the most part enjoying themselves. A shifty-eyed turian's gaze lingered for a half a second too long for the commander's liking, and he felt his hand reaffirm itself on the grip of his pistol. Nothing came of the alien as they passed by, though, and they moved into the human embassy's wing without trouble.

"Shepard! Good to see you." The captain stood as he spoke, lowering his shotgun as the familiar group poured through the door. Shepard was pleased to note there weren't any bullet holes in the wall – yet. Saren must have better things to do.

"Westerlund News is going to have a field day after today." Garrus muttered deeply as he entered the embassy, mandibles clicking disapprovingly at the ambassador huddled behind his desk.

For his part, Ambassador Udina looked as outraged as a politician could in the face of potential death, and when he rose from behind his desk his face was red as he blustered. "Yes, yes, the point is, we need to get the commander off this station before he causes any more trouble!"

Shepard was pleased when he found he wasn't the only one finding the ambassador's antics humourous, small smiles and switching lips betraying the man's incompetence fueled by self-preservation. It was cut off quickly by Anderson, stepping forward as he proffered the commander's weapon back and quickly motioning for the room to empty. It did so, albeit not entirely willingly, and the three of them were soon alone in the ambassador's spacious office.

_Was it always this big..? _He couldn't help but wonder as he looked around the room for what felt to be the first time. It was wide, paneled in cream plates of various sizes all along its walls and floor. A handful of readouts wavered from holo-terminal banks lining the the walls, before the same walls cut off and merged to a rounded open-air deck overlooking parts of the Presidium. The ambassador's desk was placed squarely in the center of the room, in-line with and facing the door – a poor design choice, he thought.

"Shepard, the situation is... delicate." Anderson muttered something incoherent below the hubbub drifting in through the deck before continuing, though he suspected it had something to do with Udina's 'over-eagerness'. "You're a Spectre now, and that comes with publicity. I don't want you to focus on that, though. The ambassador and I can handle it."

"Understood. When are we going after Saren?" Shepard responded after a moment of deliberation.

Anderson chuckled deeply as he shook his head gently. "_We _aren't going after him, Shepard; _you _are." Confusion knit his brow something fierce, but he was quickly waved off by the captain. "Shepard, you're taking over the _Normandy _for the duration of your mission. Spectres need to be mobile and completely unhindered. I'd just be getting in your way."

Quick thinking and undeterred forcefulness got Shepard a foothold in the conversation. "Captain, what's going on? The _Normandy _is _your_ ship, whose decision was this?"

"It was mine, mostly, but I'd be lying if I said politics weren't involved. I need you to focus on Saren, Shepard, not me. He's a threat to the galaxy, and you're the man to stop him." The captain dodged the question well enough, prompting an exasperated sigh from the commander, and so he decided against pursuing it further. Besides, that was what he wanted deep down, wasn't it? The _Normandy _was quite the ship, though, and he was unsure about the idea of commanding a crew – odd, he thought, given his recently given rank.

Anderson leaned against the ambassador's desk heavily, crossing his legs and arms as he regarded Shepard. "The _Normandy _is set to depart in an hour, commander. I'll have your unit's... equipment, moved on board." _Stasis pods... Fantastic, _he thought bitterly. He understood its use, its necessitated purpose, but still afforded no good will for it.

"Also, commander, you should know that while the _Normandy _is an Alliance vessel, your Spectre status means her crew doesn't have to be as well." The commander's brow stitched together once more; _aliens aboard the _Normandy_? Why would I want to – _his mind faltered as he realized the captain was referring to his recently made acquaintances. He made to voice his concerns about their suitability, but was waved off once more by the captain. "You work well with them, Shepard. It's not my decision, so I won't tell you that you have to, but it would certainly promote a better image for humankind. Their expertise in various fields would be invaluable, as well, and who knows; you might even find it enjoyable."

Shepard nodded stiffly. He could clearly see where the captain was coming from, and the Alliance crew of the Normandy was limited in its combat abilities; it was a recon vessel, after all, not a combat ship, and only had a few marines on board at any time. It would make sense to pick up extra crew, but extra crew meant extra supplies, meant extra paperwork, and there was always the risk that they would not make it back. It was an uncomfortable yet inviting idea.

The ambassador, however, had other ideas, as he hotly contested the suggestion. "Absolutely _not!_ The _Normandy _is an _Alliance_ vessel fit for _Alliance_ use only, I will not stand for having castaway aliens aboard her!" Spittle flew far from the man's thin lips as he drove himself into a frenzy. "It is bad enough you had aliens helping with classified Alliance problems, I will not allow you to take them aboard the _Normandy!_"

"Then it's a good thing it's not your choice, _ambassador_." Anderson's sharp tones seemed to register on a level deep within the man, and he sputtered about angrily, yet voiced no further objections. A small smile tugged at Shepard's lips; the rebellious teenager inside him almost wanted to make a show of bringing a turian or krogan aboard just for the ambassador's benefit.

"And one more thing, commander..." Captain Anderson stood, strong in figure as a crisp salute docked near his forehead. A measure of pride had seeped into the man's dark eyes, the slight twitches of a smile on his lips as Shepard matched his snappy salute. "I'll be expecting you to bring her back with a full tank when you're done. Give 'em hell."

* * *

Dan had had much the same reaction as Shepard had, confused yet excited, eager but apprehensive. It was simple enough to keep each other alive in combat, as they both knew each others strength and weaknesses, what was and wasn't possible for them. They had conducted numerous ship-borne operations, both piloting their own sloops and commandeering others – that wasn't the issue, though Shepard was secretly glad he wouldn't be responsible for flying. Rather, the issue was that of the crew; they were under his command, and thus were under his care. Their lives were in his hands, dozens of families that counted on him to bring back their husbands and sons, daughters and wives. Each man and woman was an incalculable risk to him, every one of them a casket waiting to be filled if he so much as slipped up once. It was his cross to bear, a reminder of what was at stake, but he wasn't completely certain he could.

If he was honest, he blamed himself for the deaths of the old squad, marked like big bloody 'x's on his operational history. Their ghosts had long since stopped willing themselves before him, content rather to plague his restless dreams and subconscious thoughts with eerie recollections and haunting apparitions. They were part of him, and he knew he deserved the guilt that he felt for them, even if it was not his responsibility, and sometimes he swore he could feel their blood on his hands. He had failed them, hadn't he?

But they couldn't stop him, not now. He had a mission – they would have to understand, and he forced the thoughts from his mind as he brought up his omnitool that was overwhelmed with ship reports and other such messages from his new executive officer, one Charles Pressly. The messages made it clear in no uncertain terms that the ship was restocked and refueled, ready to depart at a moment's notice, and it was noted that it was the ambassador's opinion that that moment should be _right then._

… Which brought him to his new task. The marines aboard the _Normandy _were good – great, even – but they were all hardcore Alliance by-the-books types; hardly suitable for the task at hand. It was this train of thought that found him approaching the form of Garrus Vakarian as the turian leaned over his omnitool, lazily tapping away at some extranet address.

"Commander Shepard." He stated in blunt surprise. "How did the top secret meeting go?" The extranet window appeared to suck in towards the omnitool as he closed it, leaning back against a pillar in the expansive lobby room they stood in and giving the commander his full attention.

Shepard didn't answered except to grunt noncommittally, more keen on getting to the point than he was anything else. "Well enough. I hear you've been suspended for your involvement in this matter. What's with that?"

Garrus chuckled dryly as he scraped his boot over the accent tiling below him, and his arms folded below the extremely wide collar of his armour. "C-Sec is all red tape and regulations. They're annoyed that I went after Saren when they said to stop." Something caught his eye in the distance, his entire head slowly rotating as he tracked it.

"Sounds like you have a personal cause." Shepard said, undeniably curious as to the turian's motivation.

Whatever it was he was watching must have dropped out of view, and he eyed the commander from behind the strange monocle-like computer he wore before responding. "Saren is a disgrace to turians everywhere, _and _a threat to the galaxy. Either way, I'm finished with C-Sec." He chuckled again. "You know, commander, if you've got something to say, you might as well say it."

Shepard smirked unabashedly; the man was straightforward and to the point, and had little patience for anything else. He could appreciate that. "I'm not one for much small-talk, anyway." Not necessarily true in all occasions, but he cleared his throat abruptly anyway. "I'm going after Saren, and I could use someone like you on my side."

He had barely finished speaking when the turian overrode him with a decidedly flippant remark and wave of his hand, though for what it was worth, the turian had clearly already put much thought into the subject. "Say no more, Shepard. I intend to see this through to the end."

"I appreciate the enthusiasm, Garrus, but I can't guarantee your safety. It's possible that you could – "

"Did I forget to mention the part about Saren being a threat to the _entire galaxy_?"

Shepard half-snorted and rolled his eyes; the turian was headstrong, that much was for sure. Headstrong, and perhaps a bit foolish, but hopefully it was borne from selflessness and a need for justice and not simply a feeling of invulnerability. There would come come another time to remind them of their own mortality, but for now, he swept it aside as one taloned hand met his own in a hearty shake. "Welcome to the team, Garrus. Wheels up in an hour, dock four twenty-two."

"Can't wait to get started, Shepard." Garrus turned on his heels, long legs propelling the turian out of the lobby with surprising speed, something turians were renowned for. Speed, agility, and ferocious determination; all things one could count on from a properly-honed turian. Garrus would be an asset to the team, Shepard was sure of that. _Speaking of assets..._ His omnitool jumped to life as he called up a new message.

_Dan,_

_Find that krogan, will you? I'm betting there will be a lot of shooting in the days to come, could use a walking tank like him._

_-Shepard_

A cheery tune slipped past his lips as he strolled along the hallways of the embassies. Respite rarely came his way, and when it did, he felt it necessary to utilize it to its full potential; for now, that meant enjoying the sights of the Citadel and whistling, even if it garnered him more than a few odd looks. What the station was really missing, he decided, was real _air_. Sure, there was green vegetation dotting alongside the river, and it contributed its capacity readily, but a station this size required the employment of air recyclers whose effects were readily apparent. He was used to the metallic refinement of the air on spacefaring vessels, but the station's was simply... dry, empty even. It lacked a certain reinvigorating liveliness that he had long since tasted.

Dan's reply came quicker than he expected.

_Shepard,_

_Yeah, funny you mention. He came looking for you, actually, as soon as he realized he missed another fight. Seems a bit uh... violent, but I can't deny he's one tough bastard. I don't think it'll be much trouble to convince him to come along, seems as though he considers bloodshed to be as valuable as money. Any word on the quarian?_

_-Dan_

_Tali? _He thought, somewhat perturbed at the suggestion. The girl was far too young to be of use on such a potentially dangerous mission, his consciousness pointed out, even if she was only a handful of years younger than he. The potential of her talents were clearly applicable; she obviously had some knack for keeping herself alive if she avoided Saren for as long as she had, not to mention the considerable experience with the geth and other technology.

A heavy breath left him as he debated it. A part of him knew she had potential, and yet a more dominate part of his brain reminded him she was much too innocent for the horrors of war. _Then again, I did rope her into this mess._ It hit him, then, in force; the woman was a target with a name because he had convinced her to testify on record, and whether he liked it or not, her blood would be on his hands. Such weights were liabilities enough, and he could hardly afford another one.

Good mood ruined, he cursed as he began searching for the young quarian.

* * *

If life was a roller coaster, Tali'Zorah was in the backseat barely hanging on.

In the few short days she had been on the Citadel, she had been hunted and stalked, forced to turn an incinerator on her pursuers, lost a friend to the same, rescued by a bunch of marines and a _krogan_, had testified in front of the Council, and then shortly after been left behind by the entire thing.

None of that helped her feel any less dejected as she trotted about the sleazy areas near the lower markets. She had hoped to find something to cheer her up there, but it was closed off by a number of pious-looking C-Sec agents whom promptly turned her away as a vagrant thief, as apparently someone had thoroughly shot the place up. It had left her to wander about the Presidium ring instead, fuming until she had found an unoccupied bench to rest her weary legs upon, after which she wholeheartedly _continued_ fuming.

An irritated sigh slipped out behind her mask. _If it wasn't for that damned ambassador... _Palpable ire spiked as she remembered how the man had rather unceremoniously pushed her out of his office after the hearing. Left alone with his likes, it was a wonder she had left unharmed as is. She thought, briefly, about how that Commander Shepard had so quickly dashed her hopes as well, and felt a melancholic twang as her stomach sank lower and growled hungrily – apparently it had been quite a while since her last 'meal'. It had come as some small comfort that the decision wasn't entirely his, at least. Still, the very _least _he could have done is say –

"Miss Zorah."

_Ohancestors! _Tali whirled about on the bench to face the perpetrator of her childish cry of surprise, only to come face to face with familiar gray plated armour. A vestigial tinge of annoyance lent itself to her mood as her eyes met the very same Commander Shepard she had condemned just moments ago, the man looking down upon her with slight concern embellished in the blue irises. She could practically feel her stomach go light at his appearance, and part of her couldn't help but feel hopeful_. Maybe he's come to – no, no no no, you shouldn't fool yourself like that._ She bit back on a fresh wave of preemptive disappointment as she looked at the man.

Apparently the commander had taken her movement as a affirmation, and she became wholly uncomfortable as the man dropped heavily on the opposite end of the bench, helmet hissing as he removed it and plopped it at his side. One of his hands rubbed dutifully at his temple and well-defined cheekbone, and she felt some sort of apprehension bubble up as she watched him warily. At least, she thought it was apprehension.

"Dan tells me you're good with tech and whatnot. That true?" Those piercing blue eyes met hers once more, and she was silently thankful for the mask she wore that belayed any sight past it. Otherwise, the commander might know how painfully embarrassed such statements made her, with her eyes shifting to look anywhere but his and her lower lip thoroughly gnawed.

"Well, er, yes, commander. I'm a quarian, after all, it's sort of a cultural thing since we live on ships for most of our lives..." She responded hastily, before descending into a silent fit. _Why would you tell him that?! He does not want to know about your people you stupid girl. Gah! _One foot began tapping against the other as she tried to rid herself of her undue nervousness.

Shepard closed his eyes and exhaled long and steady as he rolled his neck, the numerous cracks of joints that followed both abhorrent and interesting to the young woman. "You know how to shoot?" He asked simply.

Once again Tali found herself lost to the man's line of questioning; he seemed neither happy nor angry that he was there talking to her – something she found conspicuous as is – but nonetheless was asking about _her_. "Of course, the Admiralty Board ensures that each quarian going on their pilgrimage – " She paused awkwardly as she realized she was going off on a tangent once more. "Erm, yes, sort of."

A black brow rose on the man's tanned forehead, but otherwise he said nothing of her stumbling. "You asked to join me on the mission – why?" He queried as he squinted out over the still lakes of the Presidium ring, something they shared equal fascination in.

The nervousness had long since left her feet, spreading to her three-digit hands as they slowly began twining around each other. "Saren is a threat to all species, and in specific myself... I don't know, I thought it would be safer for me." Her words trailed off as her head gradually dropped lower. Did he really go and find her just to poke fun at her? _He wouldn't... would he?_

"You won't be any safer than if you had stayed here." He responded, half-chuckling at the very notion of safety. "Assuming, of course, you still wish to go."

_Wait what?_ Tali's head snapped up as her wide eyes searched over the man's face for some sort of indication that he wasn't being serious, heart beating a two-step it hadn't danced before, and the hope that she had felt earlier – no longer content to simply skyrocket – strapped rocket boosters to feathers and launched fully out of atmosphere. He was, however, practically impossible for her to read, especially as she had no information on human expression to consult on as she so desperately wished she had at that moment. For a second, he was was silent, and she felt her exorbitant excitement dying out as doubts surfaced in her mind.

"Dan spoke pretty highly of you, and the man's a good judge of character. You're welcome to come along, but know that I can't guarantee your safety nor your survival." The commander spoke flatly as if he given the same spiel before. "I will, of course, do my best to keep you alive, but combat isn't bloodless."

Tali's heart was full on hammering at her ribs, and she swore the commander could probably see the thing trying to pound its way out of her chest as he leaned forward and turned to face her in full. "Saren and the geth are dangerous, you know this. Miss Zorah, if you're sure you want to help, I won't stop you, but I won't be bringing dead weight along with me. You still want to go?"

Steely silence met his words as she folded her arms across her chest and looked up at him from a slightly tilted head. His words had weight to them, but had little changed her disposition. "I still want to go." She affirmed, voice oddly confident given her natural tendency to reduce to stammers and fidgeting around pretty much anyone. She was finding it difficult to speak through the wide smile that tugged at her lips unbidden, though, and resolved to keep to short sentences. _He's letting me go! He wants me to go! Wait, no, not really, but still... he's letting me go! _For what seemed like the hundredth time, she was thankful that the man could not see her foolish grin.

"I'm glad to hear it."

_Glad to hear it!? He wants me to go!_

"Pack your things and meet us in dock four twenty-two."

Tali was up before him, standing perfectly straight as her fingers danced together behind her back and bouncing on her toes. Such enthusiasm was quickly curbed, as he looked at her in dubious confusion. "I erm.. already have all my things with me. Quarians don't have much." She spoke quietly and uncomfortably, crackling voice dropping several decibel levels rapidly. Her wrists crossed the small of her back, and something – or rather, the lack of something – had her perking up as she remembered. "C-Sec has my shotgun, they didn't let me keep it on the Citadel."

Shepard nodded in understanding, as if to say 'Ah!', before scooping up his helmet and letting it dangle on his fingers by its jaw. "Alright, we can stop to get it back on the way to the _Normandy._" He took several long steps away as he looked back at her still figure over his shoulder – apparently her excitement had literally rooted her to the ground. "You coming?"

She all but sprinted after him.

* * *

For a quarian, the Citadel was full of leery turians and disdainful asari, sprinkled with condescending volus and growling krogan. Sometimes they would actively engage in cruel jests at one's expense, not content to simply _think_ about how much they disliked quarians as a whole, but compelled by their very malevolent nature to vocalize just how much they truly disliked them.

This time, not one of them uttered a single word.

It was satisfying in a way, though not quite placating, seeing those that might ordinarily hurl insults her way quickly snap their mouths shut as they noticed her company. The ease at which Commander Shepard and his human team radiated their confidence as they strode through parting masses was inexplicable, not to mention the quiet lethality of Garrus and the very very _very _obvious dangerousness of Wrex, and she was suddenly grateful for their presence.

Though she did her best to appear calm and collected, behind her mask was a different story. An uncontrollable grin had long since stretched across her mouth, and it was almost painful to bear after so long. Wide eyes visible only as glowing ovals to an outsider danced wildly about as she soaked in every detail of every ship whose aft sections poked out from the kilometers-long docking bay of the Citadel like so many blades of grass. They were in a long series of passages that lead to various external and 'open air' docks, but the long windows that ran the entire length of the passage on both sides afforded her a view of the hulls all around her.

Ships were not something she wasn't familiar with, but so many clean and completely functional ones in one location was enough to make any quarian giddy, and to be free of the jeers of bystanders on top of that? It was all she could to not skip along behind the commander with the unbridled energy that coursed along every vein in her body.

That came to a screeching halt when the commander stopped in front of a window and gestured behind him to what could only be described as a stinking refuse hauler.

_Oh keelah_, _what have you got yourself into Tali... _Even as an overly optimistic quarian, whom were renowned for their 'can-do' attitude and always making the best of the situation, she couldn't feel any of her previous joy as she looked over the crippled ship. Long black streaks tainted its dull gray hull, boxy as it was. Its engine baffles were dented in too many places to count, the communications relays butchered and mangled. Parts of the hull and other arrays looked like they had been actually cut away by plasma torches.

"Ladies, gentlemen, the _Normandy_." The commander turned around, arms spread as wide as the cheesy grin plastered his face to the gob-struck few behind him. The same hardened gaze that she found so reassuring before was at once untrustworthy, and she felt tricked and foolish for believing anything good could come from the flagrant and scandalous man.

"_This _is the _Normandy..._?" Garrus broke the silence as he gesticulated in what could only be described as a turian 'tut-tut'. It seemed she was not the only one fooled by the commander's scheming as both the krogan and turian shook their heads in apparent disgust, and she glared pointedly at the man as she folded her arms across her chest and leaned back on one foot. _What an idiot I am, father was right..._

"What?" The commander turned on the spot, as if he was completely unaware of the trashy ship behind him. Tali's mask landed solidly in her outstretched palm – _How _could a man be so stupid?! "Oh, hell no." He continued, and her eyes narrowed as she overheard sniggers from the marines that stood next to him. _What is this fre'eg of a commander playing at? _She thought as she looked up again. Shepard was gesturing behind the group with a dip of his head, and she rather unwillingly turned about, thought not without some choice feelings expressed in the form of _strenuous_ glaring.

What she saw was simply gorgeous, and she could have sworn the sound of her jaw smacking against her suit as it dropped would be audible even outside of it, as they exited the passageway and moved onto the external dock that the ship in question was waiting next to. _Keelah..._

"_That _is the _Normandy_."

Behind her, the collection of marines erupted into uncontainable howls of laughter as each of the newcomers responded in their own way. Tali, however, was deaf and blind to all but the frigate before her. _Normandy _was painted in bold black letters along her hull, and she quickly felt all of the creeping disappointment of a few moments ago dry up and crumble away as she looked towards the engine baffles and paneled armour and power relays. They were new and unscathed, as was the entire ship, and for a moment she thought she may as well have died and gone to heaven. The _Normandy _bobbed gently under her docking clamps, ready to pounce like an eager young animal.

It took several moments for her to recognize her name was being called, and when she did she only barely turned her head enough to see the commander standing alone near the ship's airlock, arms folded as he smiled slightly. Her eyes narrowed as she pouted sillily at him, crossing her arms as she harrumphed. "I believe you owe us an _apology, _commander."

In a rare show of playfulness, the commander's brow rose in mock surprise and he reeled as if stunned. "Me? Whatever for!?"

She snorted loudly as she shook her head, a silent fit of giggles at his show. It was good to know that her new commander had a sense of humour, even if it only came out now and again. "For making us think the _Normandy _was some rotting piece of space junk."

"That ship really wasn't in good condition, was it?" He chuckled as he scratched at the back of his head.

"Heh, no, no it was not." A new dubiousness had crept up along her stomach as she conversed with him. The rest of the crew had already made it aboard, and yet the commander was waiting outside, almost like he was _blocking _her from getting on...

"Tali."

That doubt multiplied tenfold in a matter of milliseconds.

"_Tali."_

Having been well and fully engrossed with the ship, she had happily neglected to remember that quarians had a poor reputation amongst the races, and was quickly beginning to think – however irrationally – that the commander might not even let her on board given that most people thought of her as beyond untrustworthy.

"Tali?" Shepard's insistence paid off after several attempts to garner her attention.

"Er, yes?" She squeaked out. If her last voyage had been any indication, she'd spend the trip stuck in an empty hold. A shiver passed unbidden down her spine as she remembered the dark and clammy space that she had been confined in. Thankfully, the time had passed quickly, and she was no worse for wear, but it still was an experience she would not care to endure again. The feeling of a massive hole opening in her stomach stuck in her mind as she gnawed at her lip once more.

"I asked if you were coming; Garrus and Wrex are already touring the ship, figured you might want to join them as well."

Tali's eyes narrowed. _'Touring the ship'? Likely story, they're probably stuffed in some dark chamber with... with _spiders_. Eurgh. Creepy, hairy spiders with too many legs and eyes. _Yet still, her excitement bubbled and forced one foot in front of the other, leading her past the commander with nary a word spoken, as she still had her reservations given the stunt he pulled moments before. The man was trustworthy, at least enough, and she hardly thought he would go through the trouble of having found her just to mess with her. _But then again, he did fool us with that ship back there..._ A beam of light drifted over her, sticking to every stitch in her suit as it passed over in tune with a virtual intelligence program murmuring about its decontamination protocols before the final gate to the shipopened.

As the warm feeling of elation spread over her, spiders or no, she couldn't imagine a single thing that could possibly go wrong aboard the _Normandy_.

* * *

The bridge of the _Normandy _was as dark as ever, the strip lights that never seemed to glow bright enough humming quietly as they shone. Crew members danced around each other as they moved quickly to their stations, be it in front of status monitors before suspended chairs or in the seats of weapons targeting stations in the nose of the vessel. They moved with purpose and poise, each of them in impeccable garb befitting Alliance personnel. Chief Williams and Lieutenant Alenko had dutifully taken up the task of providing a tour of the ship to the newcomers, though the former hardly seemed enthusiastic about their mere presence. Nonetheless, they were part of the crew now.

_His _crew, on _his _ship.

That was the line that echoed about in his consciousness, the magnitude of the achievement not yet fully sunken in. _This is going to take some getting used to_, he thought as he passed a saluting marine on his way to the flight deck. While he wasn't actually necessary to provide any sort of authorization for the departure from the Citadel, something felt _right _about being there at the moment, and he soon found himself standing well behind the one Jeffrey Moreau, the _Normandy_'s pilot.

"Hey commander. Heard what happened to Captain Anderson. Backroom politics, huh? Guess you better watch your back, never know if they're gonna come back on you." The talkative pilot commented, lacing together and stretching his fingers to a chorus of pops and cracks.

It was probably true; Spectre or not, the _Normandy _was still an Alliance ship, and more importantly he was still an Alliance marine, and he doubted they would yield much room for error just on account of his Spectreship. Captain Anderson would hopefully do his best to keep the jackals off his back for the time being, but one man wasn't much for a veritable army of politicians and brass looking for something they could meddle with.

"We'll make do." Shepard commented lightly. A small part of him was uncomfortable with taking over for Captain Anderson, but quelled it speedily; it was just another mission, albeit one well out of the norm.

The pilot tapped a few keys on his interface before turning his way once more. "Yeah, well, intercom's open if you've got something you want to say to the crew."

Discomfort was well and visible on Shepard's face as he half-gawked at the pilot, having never been one for speeches or grandiose events. He was just a marine, not a speech writer or a politician. He pulled triggers and detonated explosives, coordinated assaults and planned defenses. Talking big was a commanding officer's job.

… _Ah, right._ He _was _the commanding officer.

A thick sigh whooshed forth from his mouth as he leaned forward slightly.

"This is Commander Shepard speaking..."

* * *

_So uh... This turned out to be something quite a bit more than I intended and actually wanted it to be. I had started with the idea that I would flesh out each of the squad member's stories, and I wanted to, but after I realized I was going on page twenty-six or so [which is around where I usually end a chapter...] I decided it was mostly impossible, and decided to stick with just Garrus and Ashley._

_And then holy shite it just went on and on and on. I wish I could say it was easy, flowing writing, and I can only hope it's less difficult to read it than it was to write it. There are parts I'm still really not happy with, but for the love of God I cannot look at this anymore._

_Well honestly, I could... But I don't want to._

_Anyhow, that's a solid boot off into the main storyline. I half-regret taking on such a huge project, but mostly it's still good fun. Never again will I [hopefully...] write such a stupidly long chapter – honestly I have no idea why it dragged on so long, since it seemed like a very brief series of events in my head._

_Given the length, I actually sent it to a friend of mine to peer review, who's played a few missions of the first game. He helped pick up a number of grammar and spelling mistakes, and then I combed through it after. Odds are, still missed some. BUT he asked me something I hadn't really thought about before, after he had done some of his own research into the game. He asked me 'What does a quarian look like?'._

_I had no idea, so I went Google searching with what limited knowledge I had on them, given that I had very little experience with them in game [no, I'm not going to tell you what I primarily played as as far as moral alignment or romance, if at all any]. Turns out Bioware actually threw in a picture of the big one, Tali, and called it good, which was good enough for me until I read about it being a simple stock image hastily chopped to appease fans._

_C'mon, Bioware._

_So I went searching again, and waded through pages of Google Images before I found one that met what I was looking for: Tali is a young, and most images reflect her as some old looking hag. Also, I prefer not to imagine there's some horrifying beast beneath their masks. In addition, I couldn't help but feel quarians are very human like, especially since I was bored of the asari-like cartilage-haired stuff. Both turians and asari have very similar... head... thingies, and two is enough. The whole glowing eyes shindig I'm attributing to light-diffracting bits in the glass of the mask, since having eyes that literally glow like the sun seems both biologically impossible and somewhat counter intuitive to... well, seeing._

_That said, the one I settled on after some debate was this one: _

_ [forward slash] cwjcem8 _

_If you don't trust it, tinyurl does preview things, allowing you to see where the link would take you: _

_ .com [forward slash] cwjcem8 _

_Now, that being said this is just how I picture her. Hell, I don't even know if she'll ever really come up at all, but if she does, and if I have to write about her 'under the mask' that's how I'll picture her. You're more than welcome to picture her in another way, doesn't make much different to me. Like I said: I don't even know if she'll be a big character later, especially since I kind of want to stick to Shepard's point of view from now on._

_Oh also, I used some words from 1054SS325MP's dictionary of sorts. Figured it was a neat page, thought 'why not?'. If 1054SS325MP does see this, and takes offense to my usage of his or her words... I'm sorry? I mean, I could try to create some of my own if you'd like. I'm sure it'll sound horribly, horribly bad, though, and every word will probably sound something like 'omelet'._

_Also, biotics were a strange concept to me, having never been a real fan of them in game and only ever running the 'soldier' class, so writing about them was equally difficult. Hopefully it'll get easier in time. _

_Anyway, so that's solved. I hope you enjoyed it, at the very least._

_Adios for now._


End file.
